The Ruling Sea (52 page)

“What is it?” said Alyash. “It looks like a toy cannon, except for the handle.”

“That is no toy,” said Sandor Ott. “It is a pistol. All the mechanics of a ship’s gun are right there in miniature.”

Alyash’s jaw gradually slid open. “By the iron kiss of the Arch-Devil,” he said, turning the instrument gingerly in his hands.

“You heretics amaze me,” said Ott, his tone a blend of scorn and affection. “You’re obsessed with purity, yet you invoke only the corruptors—the Pit-fiends, the devils you detest. Where do you hide your god?”

Alyash shook his head. “We’ve been over this ground for years, Ott—like two old nags. We of the Old Faith do not speak of that which you call
god
. We do not cage the infinite in the small mind of man; that vanity we leave to others. Tell me, what is this lever for?”

“That is the serpentine; it lowers a burning match onto the powder charge. The explosion tends to ruin the serpentine, and sometimes the pistol itself. In truth it is not yet a practical tool. An arrow is swifter to fire, and much more accurate; a
vasctha
is deadlier if it strikes. But there can be only so much power in bent wood and stretched sinew, while the potential latent in
this
—” He gazed rapturously at the weapon. “—is infinite. You are looking at the invention of our age. In time it will bring an end to all wars, for the alternative—can you imagine it, Alyash? A world equipped with these, and
using
them?—would simply be too ruinous for everyone.”

Alyash shook his head grimly. “No, I can’t imagine such a world.”

“When that day comes, the world will have no more need of us,” said Ott, sliding the pistol back into his coat. “Enough, where’s the captain? We must bear north immediately.”

Alyash led the spymaster forward, past rows of gaping sailors. When he caught their whispers (“Nagan, it’s Commander Nagan!”) Ott chuckled softly. They knew him—or rather, they knew the captain of Eberzam Isiq’s honor guard. That costume, that papier-mâché man, one of the myriad counterfeit selves he had lived within.

Sandor Ott had lately come up with an image for his life. A solitary man on a desert road, the sun at perpetual noon, the road vanishing straight as an arrow behind him, littered with bodies to the edge of sight. Usually he thought of these bodies as his aliases, the soldiers and merchants and monks he had not just impersonated but become, so completely that he suffered confusion when his fellow spies addressed him by his real name.
Sandor Ott:
what was that, anyway, but an earlier invention? Not a talisman, not a family name, for he had known no family but the Arquali Children’s Militia, outlawed now, and slowly being rubbed out of the Empire’s official histories. He did not know who in the militia had named him. He did not even know the name of his first language, or where in the Empire it was spoken, or quite when Arquali had replaced it as the language of his thought.

At other times the bodies on the road were simply those who had stood in his way.

He and Alyash walked the length of the topdeck. Ott’s eyes darted everywhere, studying the ship he had departed six weeks ago in Ormael. He asked questions in a sharp military style: “How many tons of grain have you left? When did the men last eat vegetables? Has anyone been murdered? How in the Nine Pits did you damage your shrouds?”

At the mizzen they went below, then continued forward along the upper gun deck. Halfway down the portside battery, Alyash paused and looked the spymaster in the face.

“They sent me, Ott. They
ordered
me to seek a position.”

“Aboard an Arquali ship?”

The bosun shook his head. “Aboard
Chathrand
. Specifically.”

Sandor Ott held very still. His eyes slid away from Alyash, darting again—but this time they were studying abstractions, facts arrayed before him, words and signs and evidence.

“They suspect us,” he said at last.

“Yes,” said Alyash.

“They cannot know of what. But they do suspect us. That’s interesting.”

The bosun turned and spat. “I suppose that’s one word for it. Another would be
disastrous.”

Still Ott did not move. He might have been blind to the ship about him.

“The Babqri Father,” he said. “Your orders came from him, didn’t they?”

Alyash nodded. “We answered to him, you realize: the Zithmoloch put their spies under his command for the duration of the wedding. And do you know who that girl was—the one the demon killed alongside the old priest?”

“A
sfvantskor
trainee—fully trained, almost, by the way she fought.”

“Ott, she was also the daughter of the Mzithrini admiral, Kuminzat.”

Sandor Ott’s eyes refocused on the bosun, and a fascinated smile took possession of his face. Alyash squirmed at the sight of it. He had known Ott for decades, and that smile came to him only when the spymaster sensed an assault or an ambush, violence approaching like a predator from the woods.
No, not like a predator. Not in your case, Ott
. More like a loved one, his cherished intimate, whose absence he could bear only so long.

By midday they had rounded the little isle of Sandplume. On the north shore, two headlands like swollen knuckles bulged northward, forming a dark, cliff-mantled cove. The reef, as Ott had promised, had been reduced to scattered rubble on the seabed, and the
Chathrand
glided easily into the sheltered waters. Inside, she was hidden from any possibility of view from south, east or west; and unless a ship was running between the isles, the next Black Shoulder to the north would hide them from that direction as well. The spymaster’s cutter had arrived before them; her anchor was already down.

Captain Rose had not emerged that morning. He had Uskins greet Sandor Ott, to both men’s displeasure. But once the Great Ship lay at ease beside the cutter he sat at his desk, uncapped a speaking-tube that rose like a beheaded snake from the corner, and began to issue commands.

Thirty minutes later Ott and Alyash arrived at his door, and the steward waved them in. Rose’s cabin was bright, the air close and steamy: hot midday sun poured through the skylight and glittered on the silver service. Rose stood at the head of the table, carving a slab of salt-cured ham on a platter garnished with potatoes and turnips and slices of withered orange. There was also a cold crab stew in a gyroscopic cauldron, its feet screwed into the tabletop, the bowl itself on ball-bearings that kept it level against the rolling of the ship. Lady Oggosk and Drellarek were seated. Uskins was at the sideboard, pouring snifters of brandy.

Drellarek rose and gave Ott a precise military bow.

“Sergeant,” said Ott amiably.

“A great pleasure to have you back, sir,” said Drellarek.

Something hissed. Captain Rose gave a violent start. Ten feet away on his desktop, Sniraga stood with bristled fur, baring her fangs at the spymaster.

Ott’s eyes traveled to the far end of the cabin. There, looking out through the gallery windows, stood Dr. Chadfallow. He was drawn and dour, and clearly did not mean to offer any greetings of his own.

“He will not kill you, Doctor,” said Rose, whose eyes had not left the ham. “You may join us at table.”

“I am not hungry,” said Chadfallow.

“Well, I certainly am,” said Ott. “Your hospitality arrives at a crawl, Captain.”

“This is not a social occasion,” said Rose.

“Indeed not,” said the spymaster. “Come, Doctor, the captain speaks the truth. We all know of how you’ve broken faith with His Supremacy, and while it might be enough to condemn you in a court of law—well, we are a long way from the nearest courtroom, aren’t we? Nor shall I seek vengeance for what passed between us in Ormael, any more than I shall against the duchess here. You were not to know why Syrarys and I were poisoning your old friend Isiq. A case could even be made that you acted out of loyalty to the crown.”

Chadfallow turned from the window and looked across the wide cabin at Ott.

“A false case,” he said.

Ott shrugged. “This ship requires a doctor, and no one disputes that you are the finest. Indeed, we’ll have need of your special skills within the hour. Where is our guest of honor, Sergeant?”

“The Shaggat’s son?” said Drellarek. “He is not fit company, Master Ott. Since his brother died, Erthalon Ness raves like never before. I thought you would prefer to deal with him later.”

“Quite right,” said Ott, “but that is not who I meant.”

“The other will be delivered as soon as we lay hands on him,” said Drellarek. “My men face a new complication in that regard.”

“So Alyash tells me,” said Ott. “A magical wall about the stateroom, astonishing! Your arts are no match for it, then, Lady Oggosk?”

Lady Oggosk was sucking an orange wedge. “My arts,” she said wetly, “are at the service of the captain, not the Imperial butcher-boy.”

Ott smiled, but no one imagined he was pleased.

Rose was looking sharply at Alyash. “Why have you brought him to this meeting, Ott?”

“I’m glad you ask,” said the spymaster, taking Alyash by the arm. “Gentlemen, Lady Oggosk. You’ve met your new bosun, but I dare say you were not properly introduced. As well as being a first-class sailor, he happens to be an agent of my western rivals in the field of clandestine security.”

Silence. Drellarek studied the bosun inscrutably. Uskins, bewildered, looked from face to face. At last Ott’s meaning dawned on him.

“A spy? A spy for the Black Rags?”

“You watch your mouth,” growled Alyash. “I’m a son of the Holy Mzithrin, no matter what I’d like to see happen to her five criminal kings.” He surveyed the room. “You Arqualis mean to conquer and cannibalize the Pentarchy. I know that; I’m not a blary fool. I help you because I realized long ago that domination by Arqual, however great an evil, was the only way to save my homeland from gory suicide. The Shaggat Ness was the worst of the Mzithrin’s open sores, but he would not have been the last. I am not a traitor. I am simply a man who faces the truth.”

“Facing the truth is easier with twelve thousand gold a year,” muttered Oggosk.

“Yes, Mr. Uskins, a spy,” said Ott quickly. “What is more, the first spy ever to penetrate the ranks of the Shaggat’s faithful on Gurishal. Which is to say, the first man placed on that island who was not quickly discovered, and shipped in pieces back to Babqri. His four predecessors lasted an average of a week before the Shaggat’s worshippers found them out. Alyash lasted thirteen years. And even when the doubts began he managed to escape.”

“With a few souvenirs,” said Oggosk, picking at her teeth.

Alyash regarded her coldly. “The Lady Oggosk makes reference to my scars,” he said at last. “Would you like to know how I earned them, Duchess?”

“Not if it delays our meal.”

“When the Nessarim suspect a man of treason they hand him a knife and a mug of seawater. In the water floats a sarcophagus jellyfish—a creature so deadly that merely to touch one’s lips after handling it means certain death. The suspect is given a choice: to open his veins then and there with the knife, or to swallow the whole mug of water at a gulp, jellyfish and all, and pray that the divine Shaggat neutralizes the poison. They believe him capable of such miracles, even before he returns from the dead. They believe he waits in heaven, watching everything they do.

“I was accused of being a
sfvantskor
informant. I struck my chest three times, swore allegiance to the Shaggat, and demanded the mug. As they filled it I went to a corner to pray, and swallowed all the antitoxins I kept on my person. The fanatics knew quite well that no Mzithrini drug could protect against a sarcophagus jelly. But I had drugs from Arqual. That was my sixteenth year in Ott’s service.”

“In the service of the Emperor,” Ott corrected.

“To swallow a sarcophagus jelly is to die in seconds,” said Alyash. “I lay writhing for six minutes, burning inside. Then the believers decided I was one of them, and shoved a goad into my mouth, and I vomited onto my chin and chest, where the dissolved jellyfish burned deep into my skin. I lost consciousness, and they were afraid even to wash me clean. That, Lady Oggosk, is how I earned my
souvenirs.”

Lady Oggosk’s eyes were downcast. Then all at once she glanced up, realized he had finished, and waved at Rose impatiently. “Serve the ham, Nilus, the ham!”

Ott and Alyash took their seats. Chadfallow walked to the threshold of Rose’s day-cabin, and leaned on the door frame, watching the others attack their meal.

Rose pointed at Ott with his serving fork. “You have robbed me of a bosun, Spymaster.”

“Not at all,” said the spymaster. “Alyash has always worked from the deck of a ship—albeit a Mzithrini ship. There’s more of worth in this officer than you realized, that’s all.”

Chadfallow asked a clipped question in Mzithrini. Alyash glanced up at him, then lifted his bowl of crab stew and slurped.

“The doctor wishes to know how I came to be in Simja,” he said as he finished.

“That is the best part of it,” said Ott. “The madmen on Gurishal were close to the truth, of course: Mr. Alyash was not the Shaggat-worshipper he claimed. But they guessed that he was a
sfvantskor
, rather than what he was: a member of the Zithmoloch, the Pentarchy’s formidable, if rather outmatched and archaic, guild of spies. But neither the Shaggat’s men nor the Zithmoloch itself suspected the deeper truth: that he was
our
man from the start. Alyash told the Five Kings what
we
wished them to believe concerning Gurishal: that the Nessarim were weak and divided, that the Shaggat’s return was a fading dream. Of course quite the opposite is true. And Alyash, meanwhile, propagated a myth among those zealots, those people starving for hope.”

“Ah!” said Drellarek. “Then it was you who spread the prophecy of the Shaggat’s return!”

“I laid the tinder and struck the match,” said Alyash. “But the prophecy spread of its own accord, like a blaze in dry grass. And when word reaches Gurishal that the daughter of an Arquali general has wed into a Mzithrin royal family, every man, woman and child on Gurishal will know that the hour of their God-King’s return is at hand.”