The Red Wolf Conspiracy (50 page)

Even Neeps, who had never been anywhere near Ormael, had heard of the Haunted Coast.
“That's
where we're going?” he cried, when Pazel told him. “And do you suppose
that's
where Druffle wants us to dive?”

“Not Druffle,” said Pazel. “His ‘Customer.’”

Neeps just looked at him.

Pazel raised his hands to his forehead. “I can almost see it,” he said. “The whole game, the lie. Chadfallow was trying to tell me, back in Sorrophran. And now … now—”

“Give me a crack at it,” said Neeps. “What did your blary doctor say?”

Pazel closed his eyes. “He hinted that
Chathrand
was heading into Mzithrini territory, even though Simja's as close as she's ever supposed to get—officially. And then he started talking about the last war, and the Five Mzithrin Kings.”

“Is that all?”

“He said … that four of the Five Kings condemned Arqual as a land of evil. But one didn't: he was the Shaggat Ness, whose ship—”

The boys looked at each other.

“Was sunk by Arqualis,” said Neeps. “I know that much.”

“Somewhere north of Ormael,” hissed Pazel. “Rin's teeth, mate, that's where we're going! To the wreck of the
Lythra!
Someone must have found it at last!”

“But what does this have to do with Thasha?”

“I don't know—yet. But the last war
ended
there, don't you see? With the killing of this Shaggat.”

Neeps' face looked a little paler. “And something that went down with that ship—”

“Could get the next war started,” said Pazel. “Stay close, mate. If the chance comes we have to be ready.”

The chance did come—within the hour, in fact. The
Rupin
was but half a league from shore: a lonely shore of high dunes and small, dense oaks. The sun was hot. In the bright light the crew looked sickly and afraid.

There was food of a kind: somewhere in the depths of the
Rupin
a cook had boiled broth. The captain, his dignity quite gone, carried his portion about the deck; between orders he slurped from the bowl, filled his cheeks like twin balloons, considered the matter, and swallowed. Pazel watched him with pity. He was as much a ruin as his ship.

Those cheeks had just been filled once more when a deep, soft sound, like the contented grunt of a bathing elephant, rose through the planks. Every sailor froze. The sound repeated. Then the captain spat his soup all over Druffle, dropped the bowl and hurled himself down the nearest hatch.

The rest of the crew began to shout. “Pumps! Pumps!” screamed the first mate.

“What is it? What's happening?” screamed the boys.

“Not to worry, lads!” said Druffle, wiping soup from his eyes. “A leak, maybe—some little leak, he he.”

But his laugh was forced. The boys let out a howl and started racing about the deck, wailing in half a dozen languages.
“Mamete! Rin-laj! Save me, sweet Angel!”

Pazel looked at Neeps. Neeps shrugged. They walked quietly to the gunwale.

“We've struck! It's the keel!”

“It's the rudder!”

“Drop sail! Drop sail!”

Druffle was wrestling with the sickness-prone boy, who looked ready to hurl himself over the bow. Pazel and Neeps were the only calm figures on the ship. As such no one paid them the least attention.

They moved aft. Pazel dropped the old coat upon the deck. “Remember what the Flikkers said,” Neeps whispered, grinning.
“‘Don't breathe! Don't breathe!’”

They dived from the stern rail, wearing just their breeches, and swam as fast and far as they could. The water was cold but not icy, and the current proved gentle. Surfacing forty feet closer to shore, Pazel realized at once how visible they would be if anyone bothered to look. As the first wave lifted him he ducked underwater again. He tried to wait for the next trough, to keep a swell between him and the
Rupin
. But you couldn't make progress if you were studying the waves. He gave it up and made for shore with all possible speed, rising to breathe whenever he needed to.

No arrows flew from the
Rupin
, no shout of alarm. Off to his left, Neeps caught his eye and grinned again.

They don't really care
, Pazel thought.
They still have eight boys
.

It was easy. It remained easy. Before they knew it they were halfway to shore.

Pazel risked a backward glance—and was so alarmed he swallowed seawater.

All four lifeboats were in the water, crammed with Volpeks pulling for shore with all their might. Where had so many come from? There must have been dozens hidden on the lower decks! Behind the lifeboats, the
Prince Rupin
was listing at a most unseaworthy angle. Pazel caught a glimpse of her sailors, leaping and waving, throwing themselves into the sea.

They were abandoning ship.

One lifeboat was ahead of the others, and it was coming right for them. Druffle himself was at its bow. He was pointing. He had seen them.

Where Pazel found the strength to swim faster he couldn't say. Beside him Neeps churned the sea with equal desperation. They could hear the breakers now. But the swimming was growing harder, too: an undertow was trying to snatch them down.

“I'll skewer you alive, my Chereste hearts!”

The voice was a stone's throw behind. Pazel kicked for all he was worth. There was foam on the waves, a land-taste to the water in his mouth. He spat air, breathed bubbles. A big wave lifted him, and through the shallows beneath it he saw the sea's pebbly floor.

“Nab 'em! Nab 'em or shoot 'em dead! No, NO
—
”

There came a sucking noise from behind, and Pazel whirled just in time to see Druffle's boat swamped by a giant roller. The Volpeks pinwheeled into the surf; Druffle was simply gone. Then the wave caught Pazel in the chest. It raised him, spun him like a cork, scraped him along the bottom, buried him in swirling grit. Then it withdrew with a hiss, leaving him flat on his stomach, ashore.

Sand was in his mouth and nose and eyes. He raised his head. The world was still spinning. He realized he had vomited into the sea.

To his left Neeps lay on his side, retching.

Pazel struggled to his feet, looking down at his friend.

“Broken bones?”

“Fah,” said Neeps.

“Then get up, mate.”

“I rather like it here.”

Fifty yards up the beach, half a dozen Volpeks were dragging a lifeboat from the waves. Pazel yanked Neeps sharply by the arm.

“Now!”

They staggered away from shore, trying to break into a run. The dunes rose before them, and they were much taller and steeper than they had looked from the
Rupin
. Their seaward slopes, hollowed by wind, leaned over the boys.

“After them! Move, you fat farina-guts!”

The voice was Druffle's. Pazel caught a glimpse of his bony figure rising from the surf like a skinny Old Man of the Sea, but armed with a cutlass.

“Stop where you are, lads!” he shouted. “Don't make us use arrows!”

“Go kiss a squid!” Neeps yelled.

Arrows followed. Their black shafts fell around them, vanishing to their quills in the sand. The boys reached the dunes and began to scrabble up. Neeps climbed like a monkey, but Pazel found himself floundering. The sand gave way wherever he stepped; it was like fighting the waves again. Behind him the Volpeks laughed. Then somehow Pazel's limbs sank deep enough for traction, and he shot up the dune in a matter of seconds.

His one thought was to hurl himself down the far slope, putting a wall between him and the archers. But when he saw what lay ahead he froze.

The Crab Fens.

They sprawled before him, all but licking the feet of the dunes: a gray-green morass of stunted trees and spiky brush, of moss and vine and stagnant water, draped in white fog that oozed about in clots. Endless they seemed, and dark. There was a great stench of rot and brine.

“Don't stand there, you fool!”

Neeps tackled him, and together they slid down the inside of the dune. “We've got to go in,” said Neeps. “They'll never find us if we lose 'em now.”

Pazel said nothing. The Fens hummed like some vast machine, and he realized with dread that he was hearing insect wings.

But in they plunged. There was no hint of a trail; indeed, there was no solid ground on which a trail could run. Sand turned to clay, and clay to black muck. The low trees closed over them like gnarled hands.

Druffle's voice boomed from the dune-top, urging his men down into the swamp.
Why does he care?
thought Pazel.
Why not let two of us get away?

It was a terrible place to be barefoot. At each step the mud took hold like a sucking creature, and jagged sticks rose spear-like from the depths. They could see no more than ten yards through the brush, and as they left the dunes farther behind, the strange clots of fog settled around them. Here and there the sun broke through, but the bright shafts dazzled more than they illuminated. Sounds were distorted, too. Pazel could hear the Volpeks cursing and splashing, but were they to his left or his right? A hundred paces away or ten? Was it safe even to catch their breath?

“… stinking insubordinate pigfaced louts!”
came Druffle's voice, quite near.
“You'll disappoint the Customer!”

The horrors mounted. Pazel slid into a slippery hole under the roots of a tree and nearly drowned in the mud that gushed in after him. A fat blue wasp stung Neeps' arm: he howled and smashed it dead—and the Volpeks rallied toward them. They stepped into a swarm of green
muketch
crabs, the source of Pazel's nickname, and leaped for safety with the fierce little beasts still attached to their ankles. They swam across a lagoon, scattering puffy-jawed snakes.

“Come sundown, I'll bet these 'skeeters will drink our blood dry, Pazel.”

“Unless we step on a marsh ray first. They can kill you.”

“Look at that blary spider.”

“Look how the water boils with worms.”

With such talk they managed to lower each other's spirits considerably—so much indeed that they barely noticed good fortune when it came. The Volpek voices were fading. They had shaken the pursuit.

“A leech! A stinking, bloodsucking leech!”

“Hush, Neeps! We've done it! We've lost them!”

Neeps ripped the slimy creature from his leg. “I guess we have,” he said. “But all I want now is a modestly dry log, or a tree we can climb.”

Pazel rubbed his eyes, turned in a circle. “There's your tree,” he said, pointing across the Fens to a solitary oak. “I'll bet we could scramble up her in a pinch.”

“Let's try, anyway,” said Neeps.

The tree was farther than they thought, and taller than it had looked from afar. But when they reached it they found that its roots formed a kind of raised lattice over the filth and mud. They dropped, exhausted, and found it surprisingly comfortable, like a firm hammock.

For twenty minutes they lay on their backs, staring up into the vines and branches, wordless.

Then Neeps said, “We should have jumped at Ormael.”

“No,” said Pazel. “You were right. We didn't stand a chance.”

“But what'll we do now?”

Pazel leaned his head back. “I'll tell you. We'll climb this tree and figure out where the shore is. We'll make our way back there by nightfall and walk east along the inside of the dunes. We'll be halfway to Ormael by sunrise.”

“No ye won't, my Chereste heart.”

Druffle leaned around from the far side of the tree, grinning. As the boys leaped to their feet he did the same, cutlass in hand. He had never looked more deranged.

“You're foxy,” he said, cornering them against the trunk, “but not foxy enough for Druffle. I picked this tree out an hour ago, and watched you slog up to her. Nice of you to do that—I was wrung out, and that's the truth.”

“Mr. Druffle,” said Pazel, eyes on the long blade, “you're not really this sort of man, are you?”

Druffle's grin faded. He appeared deeply struck by the question. “No, I'm not,” he said.

He looked at the cutlass, and heaved a great sigh. Then he plunged it into the mud and leaned on it with both hands. “I've just had such
rotten
luck. You understand, boys?”

They assured him emphatically that they did.

“I've made mistakes!” Druffle cried suddenly. “Never denied it! Dollywilliams Druffle isn't one to blame others for his faults. But all the same, rotten luck.”

He shook his head, grimacing. “Ashamed, ashamed,” he murmured.

“Don't be, sir,” said Pazel.

Druffle gestured helplessly at the Fens. “Nobody expects to be reduced to this! Time was I could afford a decent ship, and proper mercenaries. Disgraceful! I've never seen such bad shots in my life! Why, they didn't even wound you! Still, I suppose I'd better call 'em in.”

He straightened and cupped a hand to his mouth. But no shout came: instead he doubled over with a gasp. Neeps, who had guessed sooner than Pazel what Druffle was ashamed of, had dug a stone from the mud and hurled it point-blank at Druffle's side. It was a good-sized rock, and Druffle reeled, glaring like a fiend.

It was their one chance. Pazel groped for a weapon, found a fallen tree limb and swung it with all his might. The branch cracked across Druffle's back, and the wiry man staggered and cursed. He stabbed: the blade fell an inch short of Pazel's chest. Neeps, finding no further rocks, was reduced to flinging mud. Pazel swung his branch again, but Druffle dodged like a snake and clubbed him down with the hilt of his cutlass. The next instant Pazel felt the blade against his windpipe.

No one moved. Druffle wiped blood from his eye.

“I actually
liked
you two,” he said. “Honest, my dears, I liked you. But orders are orders. The Customer said I was to kill any boy who raised his hand against me. As an example to the rest.”

“An example?” Neeps whispered.

“You have it, lad.”

“But we're all alone,” whispered Pazel.

“You could just
tell
him you killed us,” said Neeps.