The Ruling Sea (48 page)

“I don’t want dinner tonight,” she said. “You two had better go ahead.”

She leaned back against a coiled hawser. The boys looked at each other, and she imagined stomachs and solidarity at war. Then Neeps sat down on her left and Pazel, after a bit of awkward foot-shuffling, did the same on her right. She tried to catch his eye, but he avoided it, staring up at the gently billowing mainsail. Sailors of the Third Watch moved around them, chattering, while off to portside someone attempted (perhaps for the first time in his life, for the sound was painful) to tune a fiddle.

She sat between them, watching them fidget, wondering which of them would break the silence first, and with what kind, doltish attempt to ease her fears. Just when she had decided it could only be Pazel, Neeps began to talk.

“They ought to send us ashore to gather eggs,” he said. “On the Black Shoulders, I mean. There was a Sollochi fisherman wrecked on one of ’em fifty years ago. He lived for three whole years on seabird eggs. For nine months he ate ’em raw; then he found a big clamshell and boiled his eggs inside it, but after three more months it cracked on the fire. Then the volcano came to life and there were steam vents everywhere, and he found he could cook his eggs by putting ’em in an old piece of fish-net, tying the net to a pole, and dangling it over one of the vents. And when the steam stopped coming he climbed to the lip of the volcano and fried the eggs on hot rocks, but he ended up burning his tongue so badly he couldn’t taste ’em anymore. But they rescued him soon after, and he lived a good long life back on Sollochstol. I guess there’s a lesson in that, isn’t there?”

“Sure,” said Pazel. “Don’t be a blary ass and lick hot rocks.”

Neeps leaned over and gave him a good-natured whack on the head. “You’re the ass, remember? I hate to think what you’d have done on that island. Turned your back on the volcano, for starters.”

Thasha smiled despite herself. Neeps had knocked her against Pazel’s side, and she had not quite straightened up again. She did want some kind of comfort. Not an arm around her, not a voice telling her that all would be well. She’d been given those sorts of comforts her whole life, and they had usually failed. What she wanted was Pazel’s hand locked in her own, fingers laced tight: a promise that
he
at least would not disappear. She wanted his touch, his attention, his eyes, the startled brightness of them before they’d kissed in the washroom.
This is first love
, she thought, slightly revolted by the banality.
I love him. How absurd
.

All the same she was glad of the dark. Neeps was saying something about Bramian, about Leopard People and shaggy rhinoceroses and other, stranger things said to dwell in its forests. The fiddle player attempted a song, gave up, tried again in a higher key. Thasha moved her shoulder against Pazel’s arm and felt him draw a startled breath. He was shivering a little, although the night was warm. Thasha felt her own breath quicken. And then he hugged his knees to his chest and edged away.

She was angry, aroused, confused.
Yes
, she thought, looking at the side of his face,
you would turn your back on a volcano
.

For a few minutes no one spoke. Mr. Thyne and Latzlo the animal-seller sauntered by, debating the long-term value of crocodile skins. Latzlo at first appeared to have an enormous growth on one shoulder, but as they drew nearer she saw that it was only his pet sloth, the one beast in his collection that the merchant treated with warmth. Thyne nodded to them uneasily, but the animal-dealer frowned, scowled, and cleared his throat as if preparing to spit.

“Same to you, dung beetle,” muttered Neeps.

Thasha gave the others an awkward look. “So,” she said, “I guess it’s time we went over that list.”

“Right,” said Pazel glumly.

Neeps glanced inquiringly at Pazel, as though to ask why
his
mood was so black. The fiddle fell silent once more. Then suddenly it burst into song: a wild, bereft, racing melody, a song of flight or exile, and longing for someone or something lost beyond all hope of recovery. The three youths got to their feet to see what was happening.

The musician was none other than Dollywilliams Druffle. The wiry smuggler had taken the fiddle away from its hapless owner, a wan-faced young man who stood gaping at him, holding the empty fiddle-case. Druffle sawed like a man on fire, his spine twisted and his head sharply cocked, as if he were not playing the fiddle but impaled on it—an impression magnified by his grimace of concentration. Every sailor who could legitimately leave his station (and some who could not) pressed toward him, and a rhythmic clapping began. When fifty men or more had gathered, Druffle suddenly broke off playing and sang:

Hey!
Out upon the Nelluroq they took my Nell
To the tower-tall waves and the typhoons fell
Oh get along ye dark mare and bear me straight
To the bottom of the Pits or to the ivory gate
To the shades that gibber by the ghostly wall
To the river-maids that whisper from the waterfall
Oh get along ye dark mare and don’t ye rest
Till I’m once-a-more asleep upon my lady’s breast!
Hey!

With the final
“Hey!”
Druffle applied himself to the fiddle anew, and the song became even faster and madder. The tune was infectious; men who had labored at the ropes for hours were capering like children, dancing and whirling, arm in arm. Mr. Frix appeared from nowhere and added to the bedlam with a goatskin drum. The deck reverberated with the sound of stomping feet.

“I like Druffle a lot more with a fiddle in his hand than a cutlass,” said Neeps.

Thasha laughed aloud. “He’s
brilliant!”

Pazel looked up at the quarterdeck. “Uskins will put a stop to this any minute.”

Thasha turned him a look almost of loathing. But before she could find words to flay him for his dullness a voice called her name.

Dastu was on the edge of the crowd, beckoning to her. Thasha hesitated for only an instant. Then she tied back her hair and ran to him, without another glance at her friends.

The two boys watched her impressive leaps and whirls, hand in hand with a delighted Dastu. “Hercól really did teach her more than fighting, didn’t he?”

“I don’t think he’s
that
sort of dance instructor,” said Pazel. “Dastu’s trying to dance a Gold Hills ramble, but she keeps messing him up.”

“She’s messing with the lot of ’em, if you ask me,” laughed Neeps.

Pazel gave him a surly look. He knew what Neeps meant: Dastu glowed with the pleasure of being close to Thasha Isiq, of having cause to touch her hand and her back. Envy shone in the eyes of the other men, combined with sheer adoration for Thasha. She was a girl (most exotic of creatures to men trapped on a ship), and a lovely one at that, and noble-born as she was, she was dancing with them. Leef the main top-man cut in on Dastu, and moments later Coote swept her away from Leef. From man to man she went, her hair shaken loose of its hasty knot and her face flushed with joy. The crowd stomped and roared.

“Don’t you want to dance?” said Neeps.

Pazel looked startled. “With her?”

“No, you dolt, with Lady Oggosk. Hurry up, before Druffle collapses.”

Pazel shook his head. “Why don’t you dance with her yourself?”

“Because I’m not the one who’s turning pea-green with jealousy.”

At that Pazel guffawed. “You’ve lost your mind. Someone just tried to drown me, remember? People want us dead, and there’s a statue on the orlop with the most deadly damn thing in Alifros in its hand. What makes you think I’d give birdsquat for this dancing rubbish?”

Closing his eyes, Neeps lifted his nose and sniffed. “Mmm, smell that? Fresh from the oven. A big, buttery Ormael plum duff of a lie.”

Pazel jumped on him, not sure if he was furious or amused, but Neeps just laughed and said, “Don’t hit me! Have a look at Thasha now.”

The crowd had fallen back to give her room, for Thasha was at last dancing in perfect unison with a partner: Greysan Fulbreech. He wore the white shirt and close-fitting pants of his new office of surgeon’s assistant: clothes so clean they might have just come from the tailor. Fulbreech danced even better than Druffle played. He took Thasha expertly by the waist and guided her through the left-back-double-right-spin of the ramble so swiftly that she never had time to make a contrary step. When they came together at the end of each cycle their faces were inches apart.

Pazel had seen enough. Without a word to Neeps he turned and marched away aft. He had a vague idea of storming into Lady Oggosk’s cabin and telling her what she could do with her threats. Of course part of him realized that he could do no such thing—but how long could he keep up this charade? How long before Thasha asked him a question he couldn’t lie about?

As he passed under the mizzenmast shrouds Neeps caught up with him, breathless from running.

“You’re a first-class rotter,” he said. “She’s gone off somewhere with Fulbreech, and it’s your fault.”

“How do you figure that?” Pazel asked without slowing his pace.

“Don’t play simple,” said Neeps. “Thasha’s moody and headstrong, but you don’t have to act like she’s got some sort of plague. Can’t you be blary decent? Nobody’s asking you to marry her.”

Pazel gave a spiteful laugh. “That’s a damned good thing. She’s not exactly good luck where marriage is concerned.”

Neeps leaped in front of him, stopping him dead. The smaller boy’s patience was clearly exhausted. “Are we mates, or not?” he demanded. “When are you going to tell me what’s the matter with you?”

Pazel averted his eyes, afraid of giving himself away. Oggosk had not forbidden him to talk to Neeps, but he would never forget how his friend had raged at the old witch, or her casual threat to murder him. He shuddered to think what Neeps would do if he learned what Oggosk had said after he stormed out.

But there was another reason he was keeping away from Thasha—one he could tell Neeps about, if only he could find the words to explain it.

“You … remember Klyst, don’t you?” he said warily.

Neeps’ jaw fell open so wide that Pazel could see his tonsils by lamplight. “You’re still thinking about that—thing. You’re still under its spell.”

“Don’t call her a thing, mate. She’s a girl, and she’s not so bad.”

“She eats people.”

“Well,” said Pazel reluctantly, “yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the murth-spell was still affecting you? Come on, we’re going to Chadfallow right this minute.”

“No!” said Pazel. “By the Nine Pits, Neeps, the
last
thing I want is another ‘cure’ from Ignus! Besides, I don’t need curing. I’m not under her spell.”

“Pazel, her sister tied me up and left me to drown. And she would have done the same to you if your Gift hadn’t turned the tables and made her love you. You’re lucky she’s thousands of miles away.”

“Maybe she’s not,” said Pazel. “She … well, she showed up on Dhola’s Rib. And I heard her voice tonight on the bowsprit.”

Neeps’ face contorted helplessly. “When were you going to
say
something, you witless prat?”

“When I thought I could trust you not to screw things up.”

“Trust
me
? Oh, that’s priceless, that’s just—” Neeps was apoplectic. He bit his lips, clawing at the air in front of Pazel’s face. “You make me
angrier
than just about anyone I know.”

“Anyone but your brother, eh? Your older brother.”

For a moment he thought Neeps would hit him. The small boy’s face turned dark red, and his mouth tightened to a choleric scowl. “I told you,” he said, “never, ever to talk to me about brothers.”

“And I told you I’m not under any spell.”

“Really? What’s this, then?” Neeps flicked away Pazel’s hand, which he had raised unconsciously to his collarbone, found Klyst’s shell beneath the skin—and pinched it, hard.

A searing pain flooded Pazel’s chest. He cried out, as somewhere inside him a girl’s voice wailed in anguish. He shoved Neeps with all his might; the smaller boy crashed against the block and tackle at the mizzenmast, and struck his head on the rail.

Pazel doubled over, hands on his collarbone. Neeps had not broken the shell, but the pain throbbed on.
Klyst is terrified
, he thought.
She thinks I’m getting ready to cut out her heart
. The sound of her voice was so real he found himself looking about for its source, though he knew the murth-girl would never appear on the
Chathrand
. Her words in the temple came back to him:
Not allowed. I’d be trapped there forever
.

Neeps got shakily to his feet, rubbing his head. When Pazel reached out to steady him he knocked his hand away.

“I’m finished here,” he said. “Your cannibal-girl’s welcome to you.”

He stalked off, and Pazel heard his feet clattering down the ladderway.

The pain took a long time to ebb. Pazel leaned against the mizzenmast, wondering who was more revolted at his behavior, Neeps or Klyst herself. He had not been at it long when a shadow crossed his face.

It was Druffle. The pale spike of a man was drenched in sweat and smiling. His breath smelled distinctly of rum. “Pathkendle!” he barked. “What’s this? You’ve been in a fight, haven’t you?”

Pazel looked away; he had talked enough for one night. “Not … a fight, Mr. Druffle. Not exactly.”

“If it tastes like a duck, it’s a duck, lad.”

Pazel could think of no fitting rejoinder, so he said, “That sure was some music you played.”

“Somebody had to make that Burnscove half-wit stop torturing his fiddle. And a Plapp’s Pier boy was baiting him, calling him a tuneless hack. Of course he
was
a tuneless hack, but many’s the brawl that began when one man stabbed another with a painful truth. We’re not built to put up with much truth, my Chereste heart.”

“Oppo, sir.”

“The girl’s not worth it, you know.”

“I beg your pardon?”