The Red Wolf Conspiracy (68 page)

“What's happening?” whispered Thasha. “Ramachni, did you …?”

“I have not interfered. Nor would I presume to do so, without great cause, when a spell has been laid down with such care.”

“Laid down by whom?” asked Pazel.

“A spirit dwelled in the Red Wolf,” said Ramachni. “You heard the howl when its shape succumbed to fire. But whose spirit? I cannot tell you, but you would do well to find out.”

Thasha was still looking at her scar, old and new at once. “I think I know,” she said at last. “I think her name was Erithusmé.”

Ramachni looked at her curiously: not quite surprised, but very intrigued. “Erithusmé,” he said. “The greatest mage to draw breath since the time of the Worldstorm. How did that notion come to you, child?”

“I don't know. The Mother Prohibitor told me part of her story, and I've been searching the
Polylex
for the rest ever since. Impossible book! I still haven't found a word about her. But I'm sure she's part of this, Ramachni. As sure as if she'd walked up and told me herself.”

Hercól lifted Thasha's hand and looked thoughtfully at the altered scar. “I do not know what the thirteenth edition has to say about Erithusmé,” he said, “but I can tell you what I know of her. We Tholjassans live alongside the Mzithrin; we know their legends better than most. And as part of my training for the Secret Fist I took an interest in the lore of the Pentarchy. Her seers of old knew what Arunis forgot: that the Nilstone is no one's tool for long. And since it cannot be destroyed, the world must be protected from it by every possible means.

“We know that Erithusmé tried to force it upon Eplendrus the Glacier-Worm, the beast at the heart of the Tzular Mountains in the uttermost north. And we know she failed: the stone drove Eplendrus mad, so that he thrashed himself to death among the bones of his ancestors. And we know that the wizardess repented then, and came back for the Nilstone, and bore it south instead of north, into the boundless Nelluroq. Once again she tried to put it out of reach. And once again she failed.

“She made a last attempt to hide the stone. No tales reveal how, or where; this was the great secret of her life. We know now, of course: she bound it in a dragon's-egg shot, and then within the Red Wolf. The old tales always held that its redness came from the blood of a living being. Thasha is right, I believe: that blood was Erithusmé's own. And I think now that she hoped not merely to hide the Nilstone, but to ensure that anyone who tried to use it again would have a fight on their hands.”

“A fight with us,” said Pazel.

“As it happens,” said Hercól with a nod. “For a thousand years the spirit in the Wolf kept the Nilstone safe. It inspired the Mzithrin Kings to build a citadel about it, a forbidden place of silence and forgetting. But not everyone forgot. The Shaggat laid siege to that citadel and bore the Wolf away. And perhaps it was the guardian spirit that lured his ship to its doom on the Haunted Coast, and coaxed the sea-murths to find a new hiding place for the Wolf.

“All guesses, of course. But on this last point I would stake my life: when the Red Wolf was destroyed, the spirit's last act was to mark us, that we might find one another, and join forces.”

“But what if there are more of us?” said Pazel. “The iron ran everywhere. There's bits burned into planks, and stuck to rails, ropes, and people's shoes. It even spilled down the tonnage hatch. Don't we need to know who else is wearing a wolf scar?”

“Yes,” said Ramachni. “There may well be more allies than we suppose. And let me warn you at once not to trust appearances.”

“Never!” said Eberzam Isiq forcefully. “Or never again, I should say.”

“You take but half my meaning, Excellency,” said the mage. “We gave our trust to some in error, that is true. But in this fight it would be just as costly to overlook a friend, however strange or suspect he may appear. More costly, perhaps: I fear we shall need every aid imaginable before the end.”

“Lady Oggosk is no friend of Arunis,” said Thasha. “I still don't know if she's on our side or not, but back in Ormael she spoke a kind of password from the Lorg—or at least from the Mother Prohibitor.”

“The old women of the Lorg have their hands in far more than the affairs of one school,” said Hercól. “I have known some who believed they controlled the destinies of nations. But they guard their secrets like the rarest jewels, and I fear in truth they serve themselves alone.”

“How are we supposed to find these allies, whoever they are?” asked Neeps. “And for that matter, how will we know we've found them all? We don't know how many people we're talking about.”

They looked at one another, and no one said a word. Then Thasha turned and walked back to her book.

“Erithusmé's people were Mzithrinis, right?” she asked.

“In all but name,” said Hercól. “The Nohirini, they were called, from the high country west of the Jomm.”

“Well then, listen to what my
Polylex
says under
Mzithrin Kings: Superstitions.”
Thasha flipped from bookmark to bookmark, scanning the diaphanous paper. At last, finding the spot, she read aloud:
“Good omens mean everything to a Mzithrini. He has dozens of holy days, scores of lucky charms and symbols. But his beliefs have room for one and only one lucky number: seven. Traditional houses have seven windows, seven lamps lit at nightfall, seven cats. Nothing important is begun except on the month's seventh day. This belief is as old as the hills, or older.”

“The book is accurate,” said Isiq. “The Mzithrinis were adamant that the wedding—and the Great Peace—occur in Teala: on the seventh day of the seventh month, in fact.”

“You see?” said Thasha. “I'd bet anything there are seven people aboard with wolf scars.”

“And we are just four,” said Hercól.

“Make that five.”

Everyone jumped. Eberzam Isiq gasped aloud. Standing openly upon the bearskin rug was an ixchel woman.

“My scar is upon my breast,” she said. “I will show it to Lady Thasha if you like.”

The two adults were speechless. Hercól's eyes locked on the figure, and he crouched into the posture of icy stillness from which he could spring like a cat. Isiq looked around for something to throw. But Thasha and the boys rushed to her in delight, and Ramachni followed them.

“Diadrelu Tammariken,” said the mage. “What an honor to meet you at last.”

Even after this gesture it took the men some time to reconcile themselves to the idea that they were aboard—had been aboard for months—a ship full of “crawlies.” Yet eventually they found themselves all seated together, sipping tea from the samovar. Dri sat cross-legged in Felthrup's basket, stroking his fur.

“She was the one who saved you, really,” said Pazel to Hercól. “She shot Zirfet in the ankle. Otherwise you'd have gone over the edge whether Arunis liked it or not.”

“In my heart I suspected it,” said Hercól, whose eyes had never left Diadrelu. “Who else but an ixchel attacks so silently? But never have I heard of your people doing a kindness to our own.”

“Then you've not heard enough,” said Dri.

“Who has?” said Ramachni. “Such a strange world, Alifros. Why are good deeds forgotten, and the fires of revenge stoked year after year?”

“No one ever forgets a burn,” said Hercól.

“Alas, no,” said Ramachni. “But you are wise enough not to live for its memory.”

“You did not board
Chathrand
to fight the Shaggat conspiracy,” said Hercól. “Why are you here?”

“Of that I am not permitted to speak,” said Diadrelu.

“And we are merely to trust you?”

“Come, Hercól!” said Ramachni. “You are addressing the Lady Diadrelu. She is no trickster but the queen of an honorable people.”

“In fact I am not,” said Diadrelu heavily.

Pazel jumped again. “What do you mean, Dri?”

Diadrelu's eyes were downcast. “The clan voted to annul my title and banish me from all debates, should I reveal our presence to one human more. Well, I have done so today, for I believe as you do that this evil must be stopped. They will not kill me, perhaps, but they will not follow me either. Taliktrum must lead them now, if he can.”

Her look was very grim. Then suddenly she raised her head and laughed—a lovely, musical laugh from a woman so often burdened with responsibility. “I begged them to call me Dri,” she said. “Just Dri, as my brother used to. Perhaps now they will listen!”

Ramachni sighed. “At the very least I hope
you
will listen, Hercól. No better friend could you have hoped for. Just think: one word to Rose from any of us and all her people will be killed. This woman trusts you not just with her life, but with those of her whole clan. Be at least as brave.”

Hercól looked taken aback: he had never been lectured by Ramachni before. He drew a deep breath, then stood and bowed stiffly to Diadrelu.

“Forgive me, lady,” he said. “My burns come close to blinding me. You saved my life: I am your grateful servant.”

“Be instead my comrade in arms,” said Diadrelu quietly.

“I have an even better idea,” said Eberzam Isiq. “You five were chosen by the Red Wolf. I was not, though of course I will fight at your side. Whatever that spirit's reasons, you must honor its choice. You're all younger than I. Heed the instinct of an old campaigner. Swear an oath.”

“What would you have us swear to, Admiral?” said Diadrelu.

Isiq began to speak—then held his tongue. His gaze swung from one face to another. He put out a hand and touched the silver chain peeking innocently from beneath the bandage on Thasha's neck, then shook his head in anger.

“It is not for me to tell you,” he said. “My life has gone to glorify a lie. My Emperor is exposed as a villain; my doctor and oldest friend is his accomplice. The woman to whom I swore love has tried to kill me. Arqual stands for nothing, save plunder and the sword. All my faith has been in vain.”

“Not all,” said Ramachni. “Indeed, your faith is all that remains to you, Excellency. Can you not see it in these faces around you?”

“I see the faces of those I have wronged,” said Isiq. “You tell them what to swear to, mage. And what to swear by.”

“I would merely repeat the words you have just said in your heart.”

Isiq looked up, startled, and met Ramachni's motionless gaze. After a moment he took a deep breath, walked to the gallery windows and lifted a curtain. Sunlight fell on his face.

“Swear on yourselves,” he said. “That's all that occurs to me. Swear that no tie of nation or blood or belief will divide you, that you renounce them all for one another. Swear on the unity we have right now, for in days ahead I fear it will be tested.”

They stood still, looking at one another.
Blood?
thought Pazel, as visions of his mother and Neda flashed before his eyes. But then he thought of Diadrelu.
Yes, blood especially
.

He stepped forward, feeling very young. He raised his scarred hand. “I'll swear to that,” he said. “On my life, and yours.”

As soon as he had spoken Diadrelu leaped upon the back of Isiq's reading chair. She placed her hand over her breast, and looked deliberately at Hercól as she echoed Pazel's words.

“On my life, and yours.”

Thasha, Neeps and Hercól swore the same. Then Thasha went to her father and linked her arm through his. Ramachni stretched and flexed his claws.

“The Wolf will not let you forget such a promise,” he said. “Indeed, you must be strong as iron yourselves, if you are to stand against Arunis and the conspirators, and the terrors of the Ruling Sea. The Nilstone cannot be destroyed—and you five cannot hope for rest until it is placed beyond the reach of evil. And now, Lady Dri, you must hide yourself.”

“Why is that?” she asked, slipping behind Felthrup's basket.

“This is why,” said Isiq, and swept back the curtains.

What a sight! The
Chathrand
had heeled round, and the city of Simjalla loomed to portside. The waves smashed against her seawall, so that her towers and temples and cedar groves seemed almost to rise out of the foam. Vessels of every land were ranged along her docks; in many places six or eight vessels lay side by side. Off to starboard, in deeper water, stood the greater gunships and trading vessels. Most striking of all were the Mzithrini Blodmels: sleek white warships, even their armored sides painted white, huge cannon sticking out like needles in all directions, and on their snow-white sails the red shooting stars of the Mzithrini flag.

“Eighteen ships,” said Hercól with awe. “An entire squadron.”

Of course even the largest was but half the size of the
Chathrand
. But so many! Pazel could not help but shudder. There came the blood-drinkers, the coffin-worshippers, the ones whose cannonballs scalded men to death. Were they, too, not to be feared?

“That first is the
Jistrolloq,”
said Isiq, peering through his telescope. “Two hundred guns. 'Twas she sank
Maisa
, sister-ship to the
Chathrand
. Your expectant groom Prince Falmurqat will be aboard her, Thasha.”

“Let's spare him the bad news till he's ashore,” muttered Neeps.

“None of us will go ashore tonight, certainly,” said Hercól, “nor will any of us sleep! For tomorrow at dawn the Templar monks will come for Thasha. She is to be drilled in her Mzithrini vows. And bathed, I think.”

“Bathed}”
cried Thasha. “What am I supposed to be, an infant?”

“An offering,” said Hercól. “And we have only tonight to discover a means of preventing it.”

“Will someone be so kind as to draw
me
a bath?” said Ramachni. “I have learned to lick many things from my fur, but Volpek blood is not among them. Besides, it is warm here, and cold where I am bound.”

“There is fresh water in the washroom,” said Isiq.

“I'll do it,” said Pazel.

He crossed the cabin to the Isiqs' private washroom. Inside he found a small porcelain basin and held it under the spigot of the freshwater cask.
Only tonight
, he thought.

As the water splashed into the basin a curious feeling stole over him: a feeling of golden joy, as if he had just remembered the happiest dream of his lifetime. He stood amazed and shaking. His breath came short.