The Ruling Sea (69 page)

*
As well she might.
Darkling Days
come from the myth of the Woman and the Troll, which tells of a fair young woman whose beloved ran afoul of the Elcand Firelords and was sentenced to death. The woman journeyed to the court of a great sorcerer-troll and begged him to hide her sweetheart in the valley he ruled. “No one defies the Firelords without great cost, my child,” replied the troll. “However, my wife leaves soon to visit her kin in the underworld, and if you will sign a contract promising to care for my sons until she returns, I will shelter you and your lover in my garden for one day, after which he must depart and answer for his offense.” The woman agreed, for she could hear the hounds of the Firelords even then, and the troll’s scribe drew up the contract and gave it to her to sign. But when the scribe looked away the clever woman changed
day
to
Darkling Day
, the latter being the four-year span Rin leaves between one solar eclipse and the next. The troll signed carelessly, and as it was a magic contract it bound him to relinquish his garden to the lovers for four whole years.

        But those years of joy—feasting on the sweetest of fruits, bathing in warm springs, dreaming to the pipes of fauns and the singing of the water-weird in the fountain—at last came to an end. And when they emerged from the garden, the Firelords’ warriors seized the man and bore him away to be executed. The heartless troll too had his revenge: he had divorced his wife and barred her from ever returning, and hence the woman was bound to go on caring for his malicious, sharp-toothed sons. And as trolls grow up far more slowly than humans, the woman only managed to fulfill the contract when she was very old, and weak of eye and memory, and too frail to hobble out of the valley of the troll. She stayed in his court, and served him to the end of her days, and at the time of the eclipse wept for reasons no one else recalled.—E
DITOR
.

29
The Duel

24 Freala 941

The storm built quickly as the new wind barreled in from the northeast, carrying great black-hearted thunderheads and a sheet of advancing rain. By the time Pazel and Thasha reached the topdeck the topsails were all raised for the sudden turn, and the huge yards were once more being hauled into the teeth of the wind. The Black Shoulders were out of sight, and Bramian itself was a mere smudge on the western horizon, but the
Jistrolloq
looked frightfully close—under two miles, probably, and closing without a doubt.

Such sudden darkness. The clouds were sealing off the heavens like a sheet of tin; already the sun was banished to a bright streak in the south, drawing away much faster than they could advance. The waves were growing too: whitecapped, they were cresting around the height of the upper gun deck. Pazel shuddered to imagine tiny Diadrelu in the stateroom, looking
up
at the gray-green water each time the
Chathrand
entered a trough. But neither waves nor wind had yet reached the awesome scale the Nelluroq was famed for, the kind that would swamp the enemy or force his retreat.

Thasha was shaking with emotion, though Pazel knew she was trying to hide it. He had never felt like such a heel.
The
things he’d said in that cabin
. Oggosk had left him no choice, of course, but the fact spared him little shame. He longed with all his heart to tell Thasha the truth, but how could he, when he needed her to hate him?

Without a word to each other they made for the quarterdeck. Rose was leaning over the rail, talking to Fiffengurt: “Nine cannon exactly, and as soon as you may. All thirty-two-pounders, all from the lower battery. Make sure they understand you.”

“Oppo, Captain, nine it is.” Fiffengurt shielded his eyes and nodded at a topdeck gun. “And that faulty forty-eight makes ten?”

“Precisely. But before any of those the empty charge.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

Fiffengurt rushed to the hatch, shooting Pazel a furtive look of terror and anxiety. Then he was gone down the ladderway, blowing sharp notes on the whistle clamped in his teeth.

Moments later the rain caught up with them. It came with a fiercer wind, and slashed across the topdeck in rippling sheets that broke and boiled around their ankles. Everyone was running and stumbling: for deck swabs, for oilskins, for shelter.

“Batten down the Five!” boomed Uskins, seizing Pazel and thrusting him at the hatch. “Not full-fast, but shielded,
Muketch
—can you manage?”

“Oppo, sir.” Pazel squatted down before the rolled oilskin and tore at its gathers. Thasha bent instinctively to help him, and for the merest instant they both froze, looking at each other. Something in Pazel’s face must have told Thasha that her help was unwelcome, for she suddenly released the oilskin and dashed away through the downpour.

Neeps appeared out of the chaos, looking positively hostile as he snatched up a corner of the oilskin and helped Pazel spread it over the hatch-rail. Together they stretched and tightened the canvas until it fitted tight as a drumhead, leaving a gap just wide enough for a man to squeeze up or down the stairs. “Thanks again,” said Pazel as they finished.

“You really are a swine, you know,” said Neeps. “Thasha’s falling to pieces.”

Pazel shot him a sideways look. “All right, mate,” he said, “I’m going to tell you what’s what.”

“Well, it’s about blary time.”

“But you have to
swear
to stay away from Oggosk. Can you do that?”

“Fire,” said Neeps.

“What?”

A cannon-blast drowned Pazel’s question. The two boys hit the deck as men screamed warnings to one another. The
Jistrolloq
had opened up with her long guns. Pazel glanced up just in time to see the bow of the enemy ship blossom with new fire—four points this time—and then he cringed as the sound reached them, four fused explosions slamming into his chest. But none of the shots touched the
Chathrand
.

“That’s all for show, lads,” Alyash bellowed, staggering aft against the wind. “They couldn’t strike us at this range on a quiet day.”

As the youths rose, there came a noise far louder than the
Jistrolloq’s
guns. It was one of their own, but something had gone wrong: the blast seemed to come from well inside the
Chathrand
. Pazel heard coughing and retching as smoke began to billow from the starboard quarter.

“Fiffengurt must have botched something terrible,” said Neeps.

Pazel watched the plume of black smoke vanish in the rain. “Did he? I wonder.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Something Rose said. About firing off a gun with no ball, just a powder-charge, though why he—Down, down!”

The
Jistrolloq
was firing again. This time they heard the scream of the ball as it passed overhead. Pazel looked up: Thasha and Rose stood side by side on the quarterdeck. Neither one of them had taken cover.

“Damn it all!” said Neeps, also looking at Thasha. “He may be insane, but she’s not. Or wasn’t, before you got to her. I think you had something you wanted to tell me?”

Pazel told him, shouting over the wind. As he listened the Sollochi boy’s face grew tight with fury. “Oggosk!” he said. “That vulture! I’m going to shove those threats right down her scrawny old throat!”

“No you’re not,” said Pazel. “You’re going to do something else for me. You’re going to explain it all to Thasha.”

Neeps took a deep breath, and nodded. “Yeah, all right.”

“And make sure she understands, Neeps: she can’t so much as smile at me, even when we’re alone. She should try not to
think
about me. Oggosk has ways of finding out.”

Neeps went straight to the task—and Pazel, fearing that Thasha would turn to him with some look he would have to respond to, stepped quickly behind the mizzenmast.

The rain was cold now, and the wind stronger yet. From below, Pazel caught the dim sound of Fiffengurt roaring
Fire
, and then came a series of blasts, and puffs of black smoke from the starboard gunports. On the
Jistrolloq
nothing changed, and Pazel would have been amazed if it had. They were still too far apart, and it looked very much as though
Chathrand
was firing at a hopeless angle. What was Rose trying to prove?

More shots from the
Jistrolloq;
more wild and useless return fire from the
Chathrand
. Then Neeps returned from the quarterdeck, but his face wore no hint of satisfaction. “You can call me a swine now, if you want,” he said. “I—I cacked things up, Pazel. I was trying to explain that when you acted strange around her it was because you were worried about what Oggosk would think. But I was still thinking about the murth-girl, and said
Klyst
when I meant to say Oggosk. And when I realized what I’d done
… aya, Rin
—”

“What next?” said Pazel. “Out with it.”

Neeps closed his eyes, wincing. “I said, ‘He’s not in love with her.’”

Pazel grabbed him by the shoulders. “You didn’t. Neeps, you
couldn’t have
—”

“I thought you’d want her to know!” Neeps shouted defensively. “It’s just that the
way
I said it was all wrong! I sort of blurted it out. And it shocked her a little, I guess, because she turned her back and ran off.”

Pazel sagged against the mizzenmast rail. “She’s going to think I
do
fancy Klyst. Which I don’t. Oh Pitfire—”

His collarbone gave a warning throb.

“Oggosk!” cried Neeps. “This is all her fault, the hag! But listen, mate, don’t you worry! I’ll straighten things out with Thasha. I’ll explain.”

“No!” said Pazel desperately. “Don’t do any more
explaining
. And don’t go after Oggosk either. Just … go stand still somewhere.”

Neither of them had the chance to stand still, however, for scarcely had Pazel spoken when they were dragged into another job, this time by the gunner, Mr. Byrd. Two of the
Chathrand’s
ancient guns, crude behemoths from her early days as a warship, had stood lashed like old monuments behind the kevels since Pazel first stepped aboard. Now Byrd’s men had freed the starboard gun and cranked it halfway to firing position, kicking open the gunnery door and unbolting the sliders that would let the cannon extend. Neeps and Pazel, along with eight sailors, were herded together on either side of the gun carriage. In went the powder-charge, then the ram, and finally two men heaved the forty-eight-pound ball into the muzzle.

“Take hold!” shouted Byrd. “We’re going to run all-out, boys, as we slide down the next wave. Just mind you don’t go overboard! Steady, now—”

Baffled, Pazel looked from sailor to sailor. Who was carrying the match?

The wave crested; Byrd cried,
“Now!”
and eleven bodies threw themselves at the big gun. It flew forward—the sliders must have been freshly greased—and with a terrible sound of breaking wood, the cannon and carriage smashed right through the gunnery door. Men cried out, ropes snapped, ringbolts were torn from the deck. The big gun toppled forward and plunged into the sea.

Pazel gaped at the ugly wound in the
Chathrand’s
side, thinking,
Rose is going to tear off our heads
.

“That’ll do nicely,” said Byrd without a hint of sarcasm. “Carry on, tarboys—my crew, below.”

The sailors vanished. Neeps could not have looked more stunned if he’d been beaten with a shoe. “‘That’ll do nicely?’ This crew’s gone raving mad. And if this is how we fight, they’re going to slaughter us.”

“We look like a troupe of clowns,” Pazel agreed. He turned—and four men bearing lumber nearly bowled him down. They had carpentry tools as well, and immediately set about repairing the rail. As if they were expecting the job, Pazel thought.

Then he froze.
Expecting the job
.

“That sly old dog,” he said, turning to look at Neeps. “Rose is doing it all for
them
, don’t you see? The powder-charge inside the gun deck, the hopeless shots, now this big muck-up. He’s making us look like clowns
on purpose
. He’s setting a blary trap.”