The Ruling Sea (93 page)

He stood alone on a blackened ship, among the sleeping and the slain. Ashes, stone cold, were blowing from tattered sails that a moment ago had been sheets of fire. The
Chathrand
pitched and wallowed on the swells, revolving, perhaps accelerating. He looked for Thasha but could not find her. The deep thunder of the Vortex was the only sound.

He staggered to portside, gazing at the Red Storm, so close now that he could make out the texture of the light within it. Somehow it was both gaseous and glass-sharp, cloud and broken mirror at once. He wondered what it would do to them, if they reached it at all.

Portside was east when he started walking, but with the spin of the ship it was west before he arrived. He turned on his heel and ran in the opposite direction, and was quick enough this time to glimpse the Vortex, hideously close, a malevolent hole too big to contemplate, inhaling everything. It was a flaw the size of Rukmast, an obscene violation of the shape of the sea.

Not out of the saucepot yet.

An ixchel raced across the quarterdeck. Pazel raised a hand in greeting, but he might as well have been a shred of flapping sailcloth for all the notice the runner took. The ash coated the deck like dirty snow. He came to where Fiffengurt lay sleeping, bent and wiped his face, and shook him gently.

“Wake up.”

Fiffengurt slept on. Ten yards or so from the quartermaster a boy he didn’t recognize lay in a strange, half-seated position, bending over another figure, who looked in danger of being smothered. Pazel crossed the deck and pulled the boy upright by the shirt.

Oh.

He jerked his hand away. The boy fell back on the deck, and it was him, it was Pazel himself. Asleep like everyone else on the deck. He lay with Thasha’s head in his lap, just where he’d spoken the Master-Word.

He felt a slight tingling at his shoulder, and realized that he had sensed his own touch. And yes, even as he stood here, he was dimly aware of the weight of Thasha’s head upon his thigh.

He thought a walk might do him good, and descended the Silver Stair to the upper gun deck. The smells were hideous. Scorched blood and snuffed-out rat. He gagged and ducked into the stateroom.

Neeps lay where Hercól had left him, on the rug between Jorl and Suzyt. All three were snoring. There was not a trace of fire damage. Pazel felt a startling affection for the familiar chamber, where no enemy had entered yet. It was becoming home.

He continued his descent. Berth deck, orlop, mercy. There he spotted at least fifty ixchel, running toward the tonnage hatch, dragging a pair of wheelblocks and a long rope. He shouted again, but by now he didn’t expect a reply.

His wandering took him at length to the brig. The outer door had been shattered by the rats, but inside he found the cells intact. A few of the iron bars had been bloodied and slightly bent, but none had given way. In the first cell Captain Magritte lay sleeping. Pazel hoped he had been one of the first affected. It didn’t bear thinking about what the man had had to go through while still awake.

The next cell had a small panel missing from the ceiling, and a hole letting into some dim cabin on the orlop above. Hercól’s escape route. He had used it in time to save Thasha’s life, perhaps Pazel’s as well. But it hadn’t let him save the woman he loved.

Pazel looked into the third cell, and gave a shout of startled joy. “Felthrup!”

There he lay: enormous, mutated, asleep. Pazel could not reach him, nor open the bars. Felthrup had drunk some of Hercól’s water, he remembered. What would become of him when he woke? Was he as mad as the other rats?

When the smell became too much for him, Pazel dragged himself back to the topdeck. Frightened but powerless with fascination, he returned to the spot where he and Thasha lay sleeping. What was stranger—the sight of his own body, or the fact that he was accepting it, that he was able to contemplate it as something apart from himself, and not go mad? He
wasn’t
going mad, was he?

“No, Pazel,” said a voice behind him. “You’re merely learning. Though at times the process feels like insanity, true enough.”

Pazel knew that voice. And now astonishment was a good thing, a joyful thing, and he held still a moment to savor it. “Ramachni,” he said aloud, “you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.”

He turned: the black mink was standing a few yards away, beside the sleeping Fiffengurt. The mage was even smaller than Pazel remembered, a fragile animal he might have lifted with one hand. He looked at Pazel with the deliberate stillness of a monk. Pazel walked up to him and knelt down.

“I’m not mad, and I’m not dead either. I can tell that much.”

Ramachni showed his teeth, which was how he smiled.

“Are you really back?” asked Pazel. “Back to stay?”

“No,” said Ramachni. “In fact you could say that I’m cheating. When I taught you the Master-Words—and how well you choose the moments of their use, lad, my compliments—I gained the power to know precisely when you speak them, and to observe you in the aftermath. Observe you: no more. But because you were literally falling asleep as you spoke, I was able to turn that observation into a travel opportunity, and to meet you here in dream. Even better, you are not bound like Felthrup by any dream-erasing spell. You should have no trouble remembering this chat.”

“Who put that spell on Felthrup? Arunis?”

Ramachni nodded. “He attacked and tortured our friend in his sleep, for months. I put a stop to that, but I cannot remove the forgetting-charm until I return in the flesh.”

“Flesh!” said Pazel, his voice suddenly altered, charged with disgust. He gave an involuntary flinch. “I’ve just remembered something. I almost fell asleep on this deck, Ramachni, but I woke up when I thought of the Master-Word. And when I spoke it I saw something in the sky. It was like a black cloud, but thicker, almost solid. And it was quivering, like … meat, like horrible living flesh. It was the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Ramachni gave him a long, silent stare—a frightened stare, Pazel would have said, if such were possible for the mage. At last Ramachni drew a deep breath, and said, “You have seen the
Agoroth Asru
, the Swarm of Night. I am sorry you had to look on it. At least your glimpse was brief.”

“What is this Swarm?” Pazel asked. “Arunis was shouting about it on Dhola’s Rib. I’d never heard of it before.”

“With any luck you never shall again. The Swarm of Night is not only the ugliest thing you will ever see, but almost certainly the most destructive. We call it a swarm because it can resemble a thick cloud of insects, and because once inside it a living creature suffers pain like ten thousand stings. It does not belong in this world but in the dark regions: the land of death and neighboring kingdoms.”

“Then why did I see it? What was it doing here?”

“It is not in this world, Pazel—not yet. If it were, I should sense it beyond any doubt. Yet the Swarm does threaten Alifros, and has done so for centuries. Every day it comes closer to breaking through, and there are those like Arunis who would hasten its arrival. I think you saw it just outside this world and pressing in, like a beast pressing its muzzle through a door we must hold shut. It was your use of the Master-Word that unlocked the door. As I told you once, such words strain the very spell-fabric of creation.”

“I don’t understand,” said Pazel. “When I spoke the first word, the sun went dark for a moment. This time I saw
… that
. But why? You and Arunis cast spells that are much bigger than putting out a fire, and the world doesn’t go mad.”

“Why do you think they exhaust us so, Pazel? Only a small part of a spell’s energy goes to creating the effect we wish, the firebolt or levitation or wind where there is none. The rest goes into containing the damage that would otherwise occur. That is what makes a spell a
spell
. If magic is gunpowder, then a spell is the solid cannon that directs the explosion where we need it, and shields us from the blast. A Master-Word, on the other hand, is like a gigantic powder-charge loaded into a small cannon, and fired by someone who has never so much as struck a match.

“This time it appears that a strand of the world’s spell-weave actually gave way. Have no fear; it is a small wound in a healthy body, and will repair itself. But I am glad that you won’t be speaking your last word for a while.”

“Especially since I have no idea what it does,” said Pazel. “A word that ‘blinds to give new sight’? What does that mean? I’m no closer to guessing than I was the day I learned it.”

Ramachni looked at him strangely again. Was that pity in his eyes?

“There will be no guessing, if we ever reach that point,” said Ramachni. “Which is not to say that your decision will be easy. The first two words tested your courage. Not that I had any wish to test you. I do not play such games. But in fact you had to be strong enough not to waste them, by using them too soon. The last word, I think, will require courage just to speak at all.”

“Wonderful,” said Pazel. “Is that what you came here to tell me?”

“No,” said Ramachni. “In fact I didn’t come to tell you a thing. I came because you made it possible, and above all I came to listen. So tell me, how goes the fight? Where are the Nilstone, and Arunis? Above all, how are our friends?”

Pazel’s look was incredulous. “You don’t know?”

“Pazel, you are asleep on a ship in the heart of the Nelluroq. I am asleep in a distant land, in a healing pool under a vertical mile of stone. I can see you, and a bubble of light around you the size of a woodshed, but all the rest is darkness. We are both dreaming—only when a mage shares your dream, things become possible that otherwise would not be. Choice, for instance. I hope you will choose to bring me up to date.”

Pazel looked in the direction of the Vortex. “Is time passing?”

“Always,” said Ramachni.

He would have to be quick about it, then. But where to start? With the worst, with the part that was still misery to think of. “Diadrelu,” he said, “was murdered by her clan.”

Ramachni closed his eyes, letting his head sink down upon his forepaws. “Go on,” he said.

Once Pazel began to talk it was a relief. But as he skimmed over all that had happened since Ramachni’s departure he felt a growing shame. What had they managed to do, after all, besides harass the conspirators, and fight Arunis to a draw? For all the effect they’d had on the voyage they might as well have spent the past months locked up with the steerage passengers.

Ramachni shook his head. “Things are not as dark as you believe,” he said. But his voice was low and sad.

“I’m not a fool, Ramachni,” said Pazel tightly. “I can see how dark things are. We had a task. The Red Wolf chose seven of us to get rid of the Nilstone. You yourself said that we’d all have something vital to do, something
essential
. Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Ramachni.

“Well, Dri was one of the seven, and she’s gone. That means we’re failing. Why don’t you tell me the blary
truth
.” Pazel rose and paced a few steps away, shaking with frustration. The low roar of the Vortex throbbed in his ears. Suddenly he stopped dead. He took a deep breath and spoke without turning.

“I’m sorry. I can’t believe I said that. I know we mustn’t fail.”

“You already have,” said Ramachni.

Pazel whirled around. Ramachni was standing as still as before, watching him with those black eyes that always made him think of bottomless pits—yet never of cruelty, until this moment.

“Are you laughing at me?” said Pazel.

“No,” said the mage, “I am telling the truth, as you demanded. And the truth is that I don’t see how you can do as Erithusmé hoped you would, when she built the Red Wolf. One of the seven has died, and yes, all seven had something vital to do. I cannot tell you what, for I don’t know myself: the plan was hers, not mine. But now I think it very likely that Arunis will succeed in finding a way to use the Nilstone. If he does, he will set fire to this garden called Alifros, and there will be no Master-Word mighty enough to put that fire out.”

“But we were chosen—”

“You were chosen because you had the best
chance
of success. A chance is not a destiny, Pazel. The latter was always in your hands, and yours alone.”

Pazel couldn’t believe his ears. If there was one being he never thought would admit defeat, it was Ramachni. He felt abandoned, and at the same time he felt that he had let everyone down.
Everyone
. His mother and father. Old Captain Nestef, the first Arquali sailor who believed in him. The tarboy Reyast, who had died helping them uncover the conspiracy. Diadrelu. Thasha and Neeps and Hercól and Fiffengurt. Even Fiffengurt’s child. He felt, irrationally, that he had betrayed them all.

It took him a moment to find his voice; when he did, it sounded lifeless and small. “Fine, then. We’ve failed. You’re the wise one, Ramachni. What do you propose we do?”

“At the moment I see but two options,” said the mage. “You can take a running leap from the rail of the
Chathrand
. Or you can fight on, although that may require you to live with failure—”

“Or die with it,” said Pazel.

“—or to redefine success to fit your circumstances.”

“What does that mean? Do you think we stand a chance, or not?”

“Of course you stand a chance,” said the mage. “Pazel, the world is not a music box, built to grind out the same song forever. A man with your Gift ought to know that
any
song may spring from this world—and any future. If Erithusmé’s plan for the Nilstone is thwarted, why, seek another way. And now I must give you a message for Arunis.”

“But I told you,” said Pazel, “he disappeared. I’m hoping the rats ate him, personally.”

“Arunis is alive and on this ship. That much I can sense even at the distance of a dream. When he emerges from hiding, you can be sure that it will not be to talk. But I would suggest you do not wait—find him, pry him out of his den. And if you do speak to him before I have the pleasure, tell him that the bear was nothing. Can you remember that?”