The Ruling Sea (78 page)

Startled, Bolutu turned to her. “You … want me to tell them?” he said

“What are you talking about?” Thasha demanded. “I want you to tell
me.”

Bolutu’s eyes darted nervously from face to face. “Yes,” he said at last. “I see now that I must.”

“Then be quick about it, for Rin’s sake,” said Fiffengurt.

Still uneasy, Bolutu began: “I came north over the Ruling Sea as a youth. That was two decades ago, as I told you. Oh yes, there are ships as great as
Chathrand
in the South: not many, but enough. Ours was a mission of justice, m’lady—justice and retribution. We were forty hunters: thirty humans, and ten others, mostly dlömu like myself, in magical disguise. We had sworn to each other and our monarch that we would find and slay the criminal Arunis Wytterscorm, also known as the Blood Mage. This sorcerer’s meddling in the affairs of kings had left many a nation at war with its neighbors, and the whole of the South was the poorer for his ravages. When I left, twenty years ago, Bali Adro was still healing, and I doubt that she is finished yet. Catastrophe is the mage’s calling. And what he did to our realm, he has for the last sixty years been struggling to inflict on your own.”

Bolutu sat down once more on his crate. The others glanced at one another, and warily followed suit. “Arunis has played this game for centuries: seeking power in one land, reaching too far, destroying what he sought to rule. And later, moving on to some place where his name and crimes are unknown. He has crossed the Nelluroq many times in his long life. He profits greatly by our forgetting.”

“You make him sound worse than all the devils in the Pits rolled together,” said Fiffengurt. “Is he
that
strong?”

“No,” said Bolutu, “and that is why he runs. He lacks the strength to conquer any land outright; his ruinous talent has been to set us at one another’s throats. But should he find a way to use the Nilstone, he will command a power more terrible than the Worldstorm. Then I fear he will not only bleed the nations of Alifros, but begin to exterminate them.”

Bolutu sighed, and rubbed his face. “Now to the worst part of my story.”

“It gets worse?” asked Dastu, incredulous.

“More shameful, anyway. Arunis, you see, did not simply choose to assault your northern lands. He was sent. Dispatched, as it were, by a league of criminals in my country, to steal something from yours.”

“Aya Rin,”
hissed Diadrelu,
“now I see.”

“Of course,” said Bolutu, “I am speaking of the Nilstone. And the league of which I speak—known as the Ravens, for they grow fat on death—has wanted it for nine hundred years. When your—”

He checked himself, as if he had almost spoken amiss. Then, taking a deep breath, he continued: “When your great wizardess, Erithusmé, set out to rid herself of the Nilstone, she found to her horror that she was less its owner than its slave. First she tried to bury it within the hoard of Eplendrus the Glacier-Worm, but the Stone only drove the creature mad, so that he took his own life and left the hoard unguarded. She came next to our lands, where our mages met and questioned her.”

“They wouldn’t take the Stone,” said Thasha. “I know that part of the story. They made her carry it away.”

“So they did,” said Bolutu, “but not before the mighty of Bali Adro had seen the miracles she could work with it: a river turned backward, a forest made to bloom in winter, a tower reduced to a termite mound. Erithusmé was, after all, the
only
being able to wield the Nilstone since the time of the Fell Princes. She knew that it would one day kill her too, if she did not relinquish it, but meanwhile it gave her powers beyond reason. She had no peer in Alifros. She was the master of the world.”

“But she never wanted to rule it,” said Thasha. “Unless my
Polylex
has it wrong.”

Bolutu shook his head. “I said
master
, my lady, not
tyrant
. No, she did not wish to rule the world. And she certainly did not wish to force the Stone on anyone. So she departed again, this time to a secret place, and there she labored alone. Her goal was to pierce the very fabric of the world, and cast the Stone through the aperture, into the dark realm whence it came. Never had she attempted anything so difficult; all her might as a wizardess she poured into the task. The effort nearly killed her—and failed, for in the end she could not use the power of the Stone against the Stone itself.

“When she returned to the northern world, she had lost the better part of her strength. The Mzithrin Kings gave her shelter, and Erithusmé was forced to plead with them for a safe place—any safe place—to leave the Stone until such time as she could recover, and try again.”

“Aha,” said Fiffengurt. “Then it
was
the Sizzies who made the Red Wolf.”

“No, sir; that was Erithusmé’s own work. The Mzithrin Kings built the Citadel around it, and more important an armor of legends that wound the Nilstone up with their own fear of devils and corruption, lest anyone should be tempted to use it. They were fine guardians, until the Shaggat came.”

Pazel leaned back against the wall. “It never stops,” he said, bitterly. “First we think we’re at the start of a Great Peace. Then we find that Ott’s using the treaty to bring the Shaggat back to power and start a war. Then we learn that Arunis is using Ott and his war-scheme to get the Nilstone, and make his precious Shaggat invincible. And
now
you’re telling us that men from your country are using Arunis—”

“Using that damnable mage?” said Druffle. “What for?”

“Have you heard nothing?” said Khalmet. “To bring them back the Nilstone! They saw how powerful it was, and now they want it back!”

“Exactly,” said Bolutu. “You have been afraid of war between Arqual and the Mzithrin, and rightly so. But another, unfinished war was simmering across the Nelluroq, and one party to that conflict, the Ravens, looked north and saw an opportunity. These Ravens included mages and men of great wealth. They were united by illusions about their own ancestry—claims that they were descended from the heroes of the ancient world—and by a certainty that they too would one day reign supreme in Alifros. No tactic was too ruthless if it increased their power.

“Fortunately they never grew strong enough to threaten the Bali Adros, our Imperial family. That is why the sorcerers among them began to dream of possessing the Nilstone. They have never forgotten it, and now they think they can master the Stone and use it as a weapon of war. Of course that is madness.”

“It’s worse than madness,” said Pazel. “It’s like—”

“Being caught in a whirlpool,” said Thasha, and something in her voice made them shudder.

Bolutu turned to face her, and cleared his throat. “Do you remember what Ramachni told Arunis, Thasha, after Pazel turned the Shaggat to stone?”

Thasha nodded slowly. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever forget it.
We are never long the masters of the violence we unleash. In the end it always masters us
. But where does it end, Mr. Bolutu? Those Ravens, the men who sent Arunis to fetch the Nilstone. Are they just puppets too? Is someone using
them
?”

“I do not think so,” said Bolutu, “and in any case, it has been nearly a century since they could truly threaten Bali Adro. Our Empire is vast and strong—and justly governed, as you shall see. Arunis was its most vile outlaw. When it came out that the Ravens were using him, and indeed had given him a ship and helped him to flee the crown’s justice, our Emperor ordered their immediate arrest. True, some managed to flee the Empire—there is a great deal of room in the South—but most were captured and imprisoned. And we were sent north to deal with the Blood Mage.”

“Pardon me for saying so,” said Fiffengurt, “but you’ve made a fishhead stew of
that
job. Arunis went north sixty years ago, you say? But you waited another
forty
to take up the chase? What took you so long?”

“Lies, first of all,” said Bolutu. “No one knew where Arunis had gone, and the Ravens gave one false confession after another. But in a deeper sense, it’s true: the fault is ours. For when at last one of the Ravens told us where Arunis had gone—and what he was sent there to find—no one believed it. We did not wish to believe. We hoped Arunis had simply fled, to harm some distant land perhaps—but not ours, never again. It was a senseless hope, but we clung to it. And so lost precious years.”

Pazel heard Diadrelu heave a sigh.
Denial is death
, he thought.

“It was only when Ramachni himself visited the North, and returned with the news that one of the Mzithrin Kings had gone mad, and seized the Red Wolf, and that a dark wizard stood at his side—only then did we face the truth. By your calendar it would have been the spring of the year nine thirteen. We mounted an expedition to find Arunis as quickly as possible. Too quickly, perhaps, for the ship was never heard from again, and surely perished in the crossing of the Nelluroq. My elder brother was aboard.”

Bolutu dropped his gaze a moment. Then he gave a small laugh. “He was the ship’s veterinarian. It’s our family trade.”

“You’re not a mage, then?” asked Thasha. “Or … trying to be one?”

“Trying?” Once more Bolutu looked at her in confusion. “My dear lady, no sane person would
try
to become a mage. Would you try to drown yourself, to learn what fishes think and feel? Trying to be a mage! What one gains in power and wisdom is taken away tenfold in other ways! Do you really mean to say you don’t know?”

Thasha closed her eyes, remembering. “Felthrup read me something from the
Polylex
, about a mage from Auxlei City, who talked to his followers before he died. The only questions he refused to answer were about his childhood. He said, ‘My first life’—that’s what he called it—‘is my own. It is the only thing that was ever mine, and it was over before I knew I could lose it.’”

“Many wizards say as much,” said Bolutu. “if they say a word about themselves. No, I do not long to be a mage. It is hard enough being the
object
of an enchantment. Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Pathkendle?”

Pazel looked at him uncomfortably. “When it’s bad, it’s pretty bad,” he murmured.

“Bad or good, alteration by magic is
forever,”
said Bolutu. “When my disguise-spell breaks, will I look like a proper dlömu again, or will something of this face remain? Will women find me hideously human? Will children scream at me in the streets?”

“Gods below,” said Druffle, “and you say being a mage is
worse
?”

“Different,” said Bolutu, “more painful. But if I am called to the mystic order, I will serve. That is the way of things. It is not a matter of choice.”

“And Ramachni?” asked Thasha.

A hint of pride entered Bolutu’s voice. “Lord Ramachni saw the
potential
mage in me. He came to Bali Adro in my youth, and identified a handful of us. Some became mages, others did not. But all of us have tried to prepare ourselves for the possibility—for example, by studying Nemmocian, the language of spellcraft.”

“Listen!” said Fiffengurt suddenly.

The sound came from eighty feet overhead, but they heard it plainly: ten sharp notes from the
Chathrand’s
bell.

Time to go, Pazel
, said Diadrelu.

It was time for everyone to go; men inspected the hold every morning as part of the dawn watch. The circle shifted nervously. The council had provided no answers, only frightening questions.

Once again it was Thasha who took the lead. “All right, listen. One part of the plan hasn’t changed, despite—” She gestured helplessly at Bolutu. “—what we’ve learned. We’re still just ten people, against eight hundred. We can’t wait any longer to build up our numbers. And at the same time, we can’t make
any
mistakes. Remember, you only have to choose
one new person to trust
. So choose well.”

“Twenty people, crammed in here?” said Dastu, worried.

“Sure, mate,” said Neeps. “It can’t be worse than dinner shift.”

“Dinner shift is
loud,”
said Marila.

“It will be the last time we all meet here, that’s for sure,” said Pazel, glancing around the vault. “Right, Mr. Fiffengurt?”

“Here or anywhere else,” said Fiffengurt. “It’d be suicide, even on this monster of a boat, to bring
forty
mutineers together. Somebody would hear us, or chance by. We’d be strung up by our heels in no time.”

“Then our first task when next we meet,” said Khalmet, “should be to decide a means of communicating
without
coming together. A way to pass messages, and spread the word.”

Hercól is the one to ask about that
, said Diadrelu.

Marila gave Thasha’s arm a gentle squeeze, a reminder of the hour. “Right,” said Thasha. “Mr. Fiffengurt, if you’ll just remind us?”

“We’ll leave in pairs, just as we came,” said Fiffengurt. “Two minutes between each pair, so that we don’t stumble on top of one another in the dark. Khalmet and Big Skip will go first; they’re the most likely to be missed up above. Go your separate ways at the top of the scuttle—one forward past the smoke cellar; the other off to starboard. And for Rin’s sake don’t use the top step—it groans like a bull with a bellyache.”

Khalmet and Big Skip rose to their feet.

“We meet in eight days,” said Thasha. “Moon or no moon.”

“And we will stop them,” said Khalmet, with a sharp glance at Bolutu, “help or no help, allied or alone, no matter the cost in blood.”

The words were a Turach motto; Pazel had heard it chanted by the whole battalion when their new commander was sworn in. Khalmet and Big Skip stepped out the door and were gone. Two minutes passed in silence; then Druffle and Marila followed. Neeps gave Marila’s hand a squeeze as she slipped away. “Be careful,” he said, and Marila whispered,
“Obviously.”

Fiffengurt blew out his candle. “We’re next, Dastu,” he said. Then, with a nervous edge to his voice, he addressed Bolutu. “You’re not about to, eh, quit pretending to be—you know what I’m saying—”