Ah, here it comes, thought Thasha.
'— but at the wrong moment, it might just… worry people.'
'It might be a disaster!' said Eberzam.
'Surely not, dear,' Syrarys countered sweetly. 'When you're careful, misunderstandings can be sorted out. Don't you think so, Thasha?'
'Yes, I do,' said Thasha tonelessly. Beneath the table her hands made fists.
'An hour ago, for instance,' Syrarys said, laying a hand on the admiral's own, 'Thasha and I were recalling that summer party in Maj District. Fancy, I had the idea she had thrown her cousin into a hedge. When in fact he merely fell.'
Eberzam Isiq's face clouded even further. He had been at the party, too. He took his hand from Syrarys' grasp and touched his head behind one ear, the site of the old wound. Thasha shot a glance of blazing rage at Syrarys.
'They are such an excitable bunch, those cousins,' said the consort. 'I believe there's still a rift between our households.'
Another pause. The admiral cleared his throat, but did not look up. 'Thasha, morning star,' he said. 'We live in an evil time.'
'Prahba-'
'If Arqual and the Mzithrin come to blows,' the admiral said, 'it will not be like other wars. It will be the ruin of both. Death will stalk the nations, from Besq to Gurishal. Innocents will die alongside warriors. Cities will be sacked.'
Now he raised his eyes, and the forlorn look Thasha saw in the garden was stronger than ever.
'I saw such a city. A lovely city. Bright above the sea-' His voice sounded ready to break, but he checked himself.
Syrarys laid her hand on the table. 'This can wait until morning,' she said firmly.
'No, it cannot,' said the admiral.
'Dr. Chadfallow says you mustn't exhaust yourself.'
'Chadfallow be damned!'
The consort's eyes widened, but she held her tongue.
Thasha said, 'What I said was awful, Prahba, but it won't happen again. Forgive me! I've spoken to no one but the Sisters for two years. It was just a careless moment.'
'Such moments can be lethal,' he said.
Thasha bit her lips. She was thinking of Hercуl.
'A darkness follows the death of cities,' said the admiral. 'A darkness of hunger and cold, and a darkness of ignorance, and a darkness of savage despair. Each darkness speeds the others, like the currents of a whirlpool. We must do everything we can to stay out of the whirlpool.'
'I'm older now,' Thasha said, feeling the jaws of Syrarys' trap closing on her. 'I have better sense. Please-'
He held up a hand for silence: a soft gesture, but one that allowed for no contradiction. Thasha was trembling. Syrarys wore a tiny smile.
'In six days I board Chathrand,' said the admiral. 'His Supremacy has just given me the heaviest burden of my life. Believe me, Thasha: if I saw some other path I should take it. But there is none. That is why I must tell you-'
'You can't send me back to that school!'
'— that you will be sailing with us to Simja, a journey often weeks or more-'
'What!' Thasha leaped out of her chair. 'Oh, thank you, thank you, my darling Prahba! You won't regret it, never, I promise!'
'And there,' said the admiral, fending off her kisses, 'you will be married to Prince Falmurqat Adin, Commander of the Fourth Legion of the Mzithrin Kings.'
The Scaffold in the Square
1 Vaqrin 941
8:02 a.m.
All along the waterfront men were peering into hatches and holds. Pazel watched with indifference: the crawlies had escaped, it seemed. They were exceedingly dangerous, men claimed, and could even send a ship to the bottom of the sea. Yet Pazel had never learned to hate them like a true Arquali: he sometimes felt like an ixchel himself. A tiny, unwelcome being, hiding in the cracks and crevices of the Empire.
But what was going on beside the Chathrand? Two enormous gangways had been drawn up beside her, looking for all the world like a pair of siege towers beside a fortress wall. At the farther the scene was familiar: sailors and stevedores bustled up and down the zigzagging ramps, with casks and crates and other provision containers, in that state of organized frenzy that preceded the launch of any ship. But something odd was happening at the nearer ramp.
A crowd had gathered, in this first hour of dawn: a crowd of the poor and almost-poor, young men with their sweethearts, old men all bristle and bone, grandmothers in faded smocks. But most numerous were the boys: ragged, hungry boys, eyes flickering between the ship and a certain street at the back of the Plaza.
The whole crowd stood behind a newly made wooden fence, which carved out a wide semicircle before the gangway. No one was using the ramp, but inside the fence Imperial marines stood guard with lowered spears. Next to the gangway stood a wooden scaffold upon which three sailing officers stood at attention, white uniforms gleaming, hats in hand. Despite their stillness, Pazel saw that they too were stealing glances at the street. Everyone was, in fact.
When he reached the foot of the pier, Pazel approached a group of older men standing apart.
'Your pardon, sirs. What's it all about?'
They glanced back over their shoulders, and Pazel recognized the very fishermen who had consoled him earlier that morning. Now they looked from him to one another, and their eyes twinkled with mischief. All at once they began to laugh.
'What's it all about! He he!'
One of the men raised Pazel's hand, inspecting. 'Rough as hide! He's a tarboy, sure.'
'Shoul' we? Shoul' we?'
'Oh, I shoul' say so. He he he!'
Another man-it was the old salt who had offered him breakfast-bent down and looked Pazel in the face. 'You wan' we shoul' help you, then?'
'Help me?' said Pazel uneasily. 'How?'
All at once the crowd stirred and a murmuring arose: 'Captain's come! The new captain!' All eyes locked on the street, from which came a distant sound of hooves. The fishermen, still grinning, clapped their hands on Pazel's arms and pressed him forward.
'Make way, gents, ladies! Club spons'r, this one! Club spons'r!'
The fishermen had some influence, it seemed: grudgingly, the crowd let them pass. When they reached the fence they shouted to the marines.
'Here, tinshirts! Take this one! Solid tarboy, he is! Club's honor!'
Pazel started, began to struggle. 'What… where-'
'Sss, fool!' they hissed at him. 'Want a ship or don't ye?'
A marine stalked irritably toward them, pointing at Pazel. 'Is he trained?' he shouted over the din.
'Trained, seasoned, sound!' The fisherman patted Pazel like a favorite dog.
'Fetch him over, then! Quick!'
Before Pazel could protest, the fishermen heaved him over the fence. He struck the ground on the far side with a thump, and the soldier pulled him instantly to his feet. As he was dragged across the square, Pazel saw the
