boys behind the fence glaring at him, as if he were cheating at something. And Pazel had to grin, for he knew what was happening now, and it was like a dream. This was the muster of the Chathrand, where gaps in the crew would be filled before the voyage out. The old men had passed him off as one of their own.
Chadfallow had wanted to strand him ashore-why, Pazel couldn't imagine-but Pazel was going to thwart his plans. He would be back on a ship before the day was out. And not just any ship!
From the other side of the fence boys poked at him, hissing: 'Not fair! Not fair!'
At that moment a gate in the fence began to open. The soldier hauled Pazel up against the planks and ordered him to be still. As Pazel watched, a red two-horse carriage rounded the street corner. Marines walked before it, bellowing, driving a wedge through the mob. From the deck of the Chathrand six trumpets gave a mournful blast. As the carriage reached the fence the marines had to jab the crowd back at spear-point, and lock the gate behind them. But when the coach stopped at the scaffold, the horns and voices died as if by mutual consent. Silently the driver climbed down and opened the door.
First to emerge was an old, old woman. Pazel gaped: it was the duchess, Lady Oggosk, who had laughed at him and tasted his tears. The driver helped the old woman down, then reached into the carriage-and jerked back with a cry of pain. In the sunshine the onlookers saw bright blood on his hand. The woman cackled. Then she herself reached in and lifted a huge red cat from the floor of the coach. The thief! Pazel thought. For there could be no doubt: Lady Oggosk's cat was the very animal that had stolen his fritter. Without a glance at the crowd, Lady Oggosk moved to the scaffold and crept laboriously up the stairs.
Next came a black man in a smart blue vest. There were puzzled looks. A Noonfirther? Some other, stranger race? No one quite knew what to say. The black man too ignored them, and ascended the scaffold behind the old woman.
Then they saw the hand. Heavy, scarred, strong, it gripped the carriage door, and from the black sleeve and gold cufflinks they knew that this at last was the captain of the Great Ship.
But the man who emerged stamped the crowd with the deepest silence yet. He was a large, slow-moving mariner, his red beard neatly combed, his eyes studying the crowd from pale, leathery sockets, the line of his mouth frozen in an expression of anger: deferred anger, perhaps, or merely contained.
Rose.
The name broke the silence, racing through the crowd in a frightened whisper. Rose! Rose! Pazel turned, bewildered. The name was melting into a moan. Wives and husbands traded glances; even the marines looked taken aback. By the fence, the crowd of boys gaped at the red-bearded man, who was now rounding the carriage with a limp.
Then the whole mob of boys turned and ran. Women screamed, high-pitched; men bellowed at one another: 'You said it would be Fiffengurt!' 'Ay, and you guessed Frix!' One of the bolder men threw a melon in the direction of the carriage. 'Back to the islands, Rose! Leave our boys alone!'
But Rose, moving calmly to the scaffold, paid no attention, and the boys were not left alone. While all eyes were on the carriage, groups of short, thick-chested beings had taken up positions in the streets and alleys, blocking all exits from the square. They wore thick hoods over their heads. Their arms seemed too long for their bodies.
'Flikkermen!' went the cry. What were they doing in the port?
The answer came soon enough. One after another the creatures ran down the fleeing boys, tore them away from their parents and friends, dragged them squealing and kicking to the scaffold. There a blond officer gave each boy a casual inspection (four limbs, two eyes, teeth), scribbled something in a ledger and tossed the Flikkerman a single gold coin.
The families in the crowd were outraged. They had already paid a fee just to enter the square, on the off- chance of finding work for their boys. Even the orphans who came alone had paid a copper whelk.
'Flikkermen! Who hired them? That rancid Company?'
'The marines shouldn't work with them bloodworms!'
'Ehe, tinshirt! Bring that Ormali cub back! Changed our minds!'
The latter shouts were from the fishermen, but the marine ignored them. He seized Pazel again and dragged him to the scaffold.
The blond officer looked him over, then scowled at the guard. 'An Ormali! Are you a soldier or a junk peddler, sir?'
'Why, he's top quality!' cried the soldier. 'Sponsored by the fishermen's club and all. You're a seasoned tarboy, aren't you, cub?'
Pazel hesitated only an instant. None of these screaming townsfolk knew what it was like to be an Ormali in the Empire of Arqual. However bad Rose made life on the Chathrand, it would be better than starving, or being sent to break stones in the Forgotten Colonies.
'I am, sir!' he cried. 'I was much appreciated by Captain Nestef of the Eniel, who told me I knew my rigging like a true sailor, and my knots, and my flags, and my signals, to say nothing of my dispatch in foul weather, and he never meant to leave me ashore, I'm-'
'Buffoon!' said the blond officer to the marine. 'Take that chattering monkey from my sight.'
'You watch your tongue,' growled the soldier. 'I don't care how rich that old woman's made ye-'
'Rich enough to tire of swindlers,' said the officer.
'You're addressing a member of His Supremacy's Tenth Legion!'
'Then our labors pay for your grog and boots and girlies. Now get hence.'
Watching his luck slip away, Pazel took a drastic risk: he tugged at the first mate's sleeve. 'Please, sir! I won't chatter, or act monkeyish, I was not known for either quality on the Eniel, where Captain Nestef complimented me on four occasions, twice in the presence of gentlemen, sir, and he said I was a tarboy of distinction, and that I was helpful on deck and below, and that my tea was fit for court, that I skinned my potatoes with great efficiency, wasting nothing but removing the rot, sir, and-'
'Mr. Uskins,' said a deep voice. 'Take the boy.'
It was Captain Rose. Pazel looked up at the pulpit, and for an instant the big man stared back. The mouth was lost in the red beard, but the green eyes were chilling.
'My father had a chatterbox among his boys,' he said. 'The tailor stitched his mouth shut with twine.'
Uskins tossed the marine a coin and waved irritably at Pazel. 'Over there with the rest. Go on!'
Already wondering if he had made a mistake, Pazel obeyed. The boys were huddled together, whimpering. Some were mere urchins, come to work for food and shelter on the Great Ship; a few had the salt-roughened hair and strong arms of tarboys. It seemed they had passed the night on the wharf, huddled in doorways, abandoned barges, crates. But they had fled in a heartbeat at the sight of Rose.
Like all seafarers, Pazel had heard of Captain Nilus Rotheby Rose. He was the most famous commander of the Chathrand, and the longest serving. Famous because crafty: rumor had it that he had once smuggled a fortune in contraband silks out of Ibithraйd by sewing the priceless cloth up inside double-sails. And famous because cruel: another story had him hanging a second mate by the ankles from the bowsprit for ten leagues. The crime was yawning on watch.
Rose was also the only captain of the Great Ship ever to have been fired. Pazel had no idea why. But the Chathrand Trading Family set the highest standards in the Empire. It was a rare and shocking thing for one of their commanders to lose his ship.
And completely unheard of, a miracle almost, for him to get it back.
A few minutes more and some thirty boys had been purchased. A single glance told Pazel that he was the only Ormali. No surprise there. But it was startling how many misfits the Flikkermen had rounded up. Less than two-thirds had the black hair and broad shoulders of Arqual. The other boys were of all kinds: one had skin the color of brandy, another startling green eyes, two others sky-blue stars tattooed on their foreheads. Pazel had seen such boys over the years, but never in an Arquali crew. They would be outcasts, like Pazel himself. And that could mean-why not? — that they would be his friends.
And at the very least, Jervik was not among them.
Now the first mate, Uskins, turned to face the boys. He was smiling, suddenly. The change in his looks was so extreme he seemed almost a different man.
'Well and good, lads!' he boomed. 'You've no cause for worry. Mr. Fiffengurt here will be taking you aboard. He's our quartermaster, and a Sorrophrani blood and bone, and he'll be in charge of you for the whole of your
