The Ruling Sea (53 page)

“To complete the story,” said Ott. “The Mzithrinis had never seen such an effective spy—of course they hadn’t; I trained Alyash myself—and they were not about to let his service end with Gurishal. So they extended his scars to the
back
of his neck, obliterating his Mzithrini tattoos, and sent him to a place they wished desperately to infiltrate: Simjalla City, where the Great Peace would begin.”

“It was a natural choice,” said Alyash. “My father traces his family line back to the Crownless Lands. At least a part of me is Simjan.”

Ott smiled, giving his brandy an interrogatory sniff. “You might not think so,” he said, “but most of the best spies in history are mongrels. Transplants, half-bloods, children of vagabond fathers or women taken in war.”

“Is that so for you, Mr. Ott?” said Uskins, through a mouthful of ham. “You’re His Supremacy’s best, of course, so—”

“Uskins,” said Rose, “finish your meal in silence.”

“Oppo, sir.”

“And chew your food as befits a man.”

Sandor Ott was looking at Uskins as one might a horsefly whose buzzing one has resolved to suffer no more. Under his gaze the first mate became quickly unnerved. His knife squeaked. He chewed with great concentration.

“Stukey,” muttered Alyash in disgust.

Rose shot him a dark look. “Alyash, is it the Mzithrini in you that thinks it well to visit your captain’s table with a rag knotted at your neck?”

Alyash whipped the sweaty bandanna from his throat. “Your pardon, sir.”

“I sent ashore for a bosun, not a spy. And I do not require a bosun of divided loyalties. Tell me, whom do you serve?”

“By the will of His Supremacy, sir, you are Captain and Final Offshore Authority. That means the mission is in your hands.”

“I know exactly how far my authority extends,” said Rose, “but do you?”

“Sir, I am a true servant of Magad the Fifth. My loyalties are as clear to me now as they have been since I boarded.”

Rose looked at the man, visibly displeased with the answer. Then Lady Oggosk cleared her throat. Scraping at a patch of flaking skin on her hand, she said, “Nilus, you should not give them leave to walk into Bramian. The island is an eater of men, and I’m not just speaking of the savages. The Lorg has a prayer-history for the husbands of its graduates who died in unwise excursions there, and the prayer takes days to chant.” She raised her milky eyes and looked squarely at Ott. “Dreamers fare the worst,” she said.

Ott met her gaze, unblinking. “It might surprise you to know, Duchess, that my men have been at work inside Bramian for over a year.”

“Fifty yards inside,” said Oggosk. “And mostly underground. Not exactly the work of heroes, is it?”

There came a knock at the door. The steward answered, and whispered with someone on the threshold. Then he walked to the captain and bent to his ear.

“Let him be brought in at once,” said Rose. “Dr. Chadfallow, you will hold your tongue, or I shall have you removed.”

The steward returned to the door and swung it wide. There stood Pazel Pathkendle, held roughly by a gargantuan Turach. The youth’s hands were tied behind his back, and a gag pulled his lips back severely. Fitted around his neck was a broad leather collar with iron studs, a bit like those worn by fighting dogs, except that this collar had an odd, ratchet-like device on one side.

The Turach dragged Pazel forward, into the sunlight. It was clear now that the collar was very tight, and that the rag in the boy’s mouth was dark with blood. Pazel turned wild and furious eyes from one face to another. When at last they fell on Dr. Chadfallow the rage that burned in them grew even stronger.

“I didn’t hit him, Sergeant Drellarek,” said the soldier defensively. “He just bit his tongue.”

“And then bit you?”

The Turach glanced sheepishly at his own bandaged forearm. He shook his head. “That were the Treaty Bride,” he said. “She had a blade.”

Rose was livid. “My orders were not clear, then?”

“Sir, they were very clear; you wanted her brought as well. It mortifies me to tell you that she slipped away. I think she was expecting us, sir—she was that wary. And the Tholjassan and the Undrabust brat got in our way, and next thing we knew she was back in her blary luxury suite. But we have the Tholjassan in chains.”

Sandor Ott looked at him with amusement. “You captured Hercól of Tholjassa? How many Turachs did
that
require?”

The soldier glanced rather stiffly at Ott. “We gave him a knock to remember, sir, I promise you that. Captain Rose, I—”

Rose waved a hand for silence. “Tie Pathkendle to the stanchion. Then go.”

The man did as he was told. Pazel, bound hand and foot to the wooden post, looked again at Chadfallow. He tried to speak: just one word through the bloody cloth. It might have been
traitor
. Chadfallow was very still, but his eyes were full of thought, fear, calculation. He looked like a man resigned to being hated.

Ott dabbed at his mouth with a napkin, then stood up. “My good Niriviel overheard a fascinating confession from this boy,” he said, approaching Pazel. “To wit, he is not the keeper of the Shaggat’s spell, although he cast it. That explains why Arunis dared try to kill him. And why we may do so, if necessary.”

He laid a hand on the back of the collar around Pazel’s neck. Then he looked deliberately at Chadfallow. “Objections, Doctor? Now would be a fine time to share them.”

Chadfallow did not even look at the spy. His eyes were locked on Pazel, and they were bright and beseeching.

Ott’s hand yanked at the buckle. There was a loud
click
, and Pazel gave a strangled moan. The collar had visibly tightened.

“Another two clicks, and I crush his windpipe. Not a very good interrogation tool, as one of my men pointed out: Mr. Pathkendle is already deprived of speech. But marvelous for extracting signatures and the like. Would you really shed no tears, Chadfallow, after sponsoring the lad for so long? Come, we all know you loved his mother. Surely you can’t be indifferent to the fate of her son?”

Slowly the doctor raised his eyes to Ott’s face. “Entirely,” he said. Then he turned and walked back toward the window.

Click
.

Chadfallow whirled about. Pazel was writhing in his bonds; a pink froth was on his lips.

Drellarek sat up, professionally interested. Uskins gaped in horror. A faint sound escaped Pazel’s throat, like the squelch of a deck-rag being twisted dry.

“For Rin’s sake, Nilus, we’re eating,” grumbled Oggosk.

Rose gestured at the collar. “Remove that thing,” he said. “Chadfallow, if you do not intend to dine I suggest you make preparations.”

Ott touched something on the buckle. The collar sprang loose, and Pazel fell forward with an agonized gasp. The spymaster returned to his meal.

“What I still cannot fathom,” said Drellarek, passing his plate, “is the nature of the uprising you have engineered. Let us presume for a moment that the mage is mad—that he cannot grant the Shaggat the power to wield this Nilstone, however great or small a weapon it may be.”

“We presume
nothing
in this campaign,” said Ott. “We will take the Nilstone for ourselves, and tame or kill the sorcerer, long before we arrive at Gurishal. Indeed it will be the first order of business, once the Shaggat is restored to life.”

“All the better,” said Drellarek. “But how is the Shaggat’s horde to threaten the Mzithrin? They have no navy, surely?”

Alyash shook his head. “Fishing boats, near-shore vessels, a few broken-down brigs.”

“Why then,” said Drellarek, “how are they even to
engage
the White Fleet—let alone threaten it? Have they any hope of a general breakout from Gurishal?”

“They have hope in their prophecy,” said Ott. “And their faith is ferocious, while that of the Five Kings is weak. Remember that the Mzithrin nearly conquered the world, only to be defeated from within by the splintering of their own religion. The Nessarim, by contrast, have belief in a god who walked among them: a god who defied the greatest empire in Alifros, and who may yet return to rule it. Nothing will turn them from that dream.

“They have useful delusions; we have specific tactics. And tomorrow’s excursion will play a part in both.”

Ott sat back, and Rose leaned his massive elbows on the table. In the silence Pazel raised his head and found all of them looking at him.

“Are you quite finished, Duchess?” Rose inquired.

Oggosk pushed away her soup bowl.
“Glah.”

“Very well,” said Rose.

Pazel tensed. His tormentors’ eyes shifted. Pazel turned his head and saw Chadfallow coming toward him with what looked like a small, swan-necked watering pail. The doctor was very quick. He grabbed Pazel’s hair in his left hand and wrenched his head back, then forced the pail’s spout through the boy’s lips and past the bloody rag. Before Pazel knew what was happening he had swallowed a mouthful of something bitter and warm. Chadfallow removed the spout and caught Pazel’s chin in his hand, making sure the rest of the liquid went down his throat. His look was fierce and dangerous, but unlike Ott he showed no sign of enjoying what he did. A moment later he released Pazel and stepped back.

“You may proceed,” he said to the spymaster.

“So soon?”

“It will have happened already, if it is going to happen at all.”

Sandor Ott moved in front of Pazel, who was coughing and shaking. “Calm yourself,” he said. “It is no poison. Where that’s concerned I scarcely need a doctor’s help. Now listen to me carefully, Pathkendle.
Urtale preda nusali ch’ulthanon.”

The words were like a kick to the stomach. Pazel stared up into Ott’s cold eyes. The spymaster nodded. And Pazel slammed his head back against the stanchion with a wail of grief that racked his body more terribly than the pain of a few minutes before.

“Great Rin above!” said Drellarek. “He understood!”

“Peace, boy!” laughed Ott. “I was citing ancient literature, not telling you of my actual deeds.
Urtale preda nusali ch’ulthanon:
I sent your mother to an early death. The confession of the doomed hero of the
Song of Itash
, written nineteen centuries ago by an anonymous whore in the court of the Amber Kings.”

Pazel’s heart was hammering. His eyes were wide with terror and confusion.

“And yet you scarcely noticed me switching tongues,” Ott went on. “Your Gift is working, lad. Chadfallow’s drug has just induced it. And to you, Doctor, my hearty congratulations. If we can truly access his Gift whenever the need arises, Mr. Pathkendle may yet prove as beneficial as once you claimed.”

Pazel twisted around to look at the doctor. Whatever mix of emotions he had felt before was gone. There was nothing in his eyes but hate.

Chadfallow did not meet his gaze. “The drug is not perfect,” he said. “The boy may suffer some disorientation, some loss of bearings, until the process ends in the normal manner.”

“Normal,” said Drellarek with a smirk. “You mean with jabbering fits.”

“Just look at that face!” laughed Uskins. “It’s the
muketch
you should be afraid of, Doctor. He hates you. Give him half a chance and he’ll put a knife in your belly.”

“Mr. Uskins,” said Rose, “you will escort Pathkendle to the brig. Have his dinner brought there, and his foul-weather clothes. And instruct the cobbler to make him a pair of shoes by evening. Shoes, not sandals.”

“Oppo, Captain, shoes it is.”

Oggosk squinted at Pazel. “What are you staring at, boy?”

Pazel started. He felt as if they had beaten him with clubs. But it was true, he
had
been staring, mute and amazed—at Captain Rose. The man’s sleeve had ridden up toward the elbow. Seeing it now, Rose hastily pulled the sleeve down again. But it was too late, and he knew it. Pazel had seen what Rose wished no one to see: a wolf-shaped scar above his wrist.

“Get the boy out of here,” said Rose. “And let us conclude our business swiftly. The day is waning, and tomorrow we shall all be tested.”

“The tarboy’s passed a test already,” said Drellarek, smirking again.

“Just one,” said Sandor Ott, “the easiest.”

23
Bramian