The sailors returned with pikes in hand, more thoughtful than when they had run away. When they pointed them at the augrong holding Frix, its companion gave a great twisting heave, scattering men like ninepins. The first creature answered with ferocious leaps and bellows. Mr. Frix, struck dumb by his predicament until then, began to howl for his life.
Uskins waved his arms and screamed: 'Dinner or kill? Why not? You kill, kill, kill!'
'Oh, sky!' said Pazel. 'Be quiet, you fool!'
By the faces of the men he guessed that no one, least of all Uskins himself, knew what the first mate was shouting. The augrong knew, though, and looked ready to oblige. Mr. Frix began to wail like a man roasting on a fire.
Pazel knew what he had to do next-and before fear could stop him, he did it. Breaking the Rule of the Five Zones, he bounded up the ladder to the quarterdeck, darted right past Uskins (who was still shouting 'Kill!'), planted a foot on the rail and, with only an instant to wonder if Frix's life was worth losing his own for, jumped.
The height of the forecastle let him clear the heads of the sailors with ease. But he had forgotten the augrong's chains. Even as he leaped, the monster reared backward and the chain about its neck drew up tight as a bowstring. Pazel met it with his knees, spun helplessly in the air and landed with an agonizing thump on the augrong's foot.
To the creature this was apparently the last straw. Dancing on one foot, it tossed Frix into the bay and scooped up Pazel in one hand, bellowing like a hundred bulls. Before Pazel knew what was happening he found himself being squeezed in the crook of the monster's elbow.
'Wait!' gasped Pazel. He tried to add, Please, but the breath had been knocked from his lungs, and his Gift informed him in an instant that the word did not exist in Augronga. But for an instant one word was enough: the creature hesitated, its raging red eyes fixed on the tarboy.
'You're both coming aboard,' Pazel managed to croak. 'We need you both to lift anchor!'
As soon as the words left his mouth the creature loosened its grip. The augrong gaped at Pazel. Two hundred sailors gaped at the augrong. And in the moment of silence that followed, Mr. Uskins laughed aloud.
'Eat him, then, you daft dirty lizard! We need Frix, but tarboys are a penny a pound! And you'll do this ship a favor if you can choke down that Ormali runt.'
But Uskins had given up on his pseudo-Augronga, and the creature paid no heed to his Arquali. Instead it listened to the rest of Pazel's explanation. Then in deep-chested grunts (and using the foulest metaphor to refer to Mr. Uskins) it relayed the message to its companion. The short-eared creature sighed like the wind.
'Anger for nothing,' it said. 'Battle with smoke.'
Its arms fell to its sides. All about the harbor, and aboard the Chathrand, men echoed the sigh. The fight was over.
Pazel, however, still hung from the creature's arm. Twisting, he found himself looking sidelong at the crowded quay. It was disturbing to be watched by so many silent people. Faces leaped out at him: a one-armed veteran, a woman with a basket of melons on her head, a lean man with a fighter's muscles holding the chains of two enormous blue dogs.
From this last figure Pazel's eyes slid to a striking older man in Imperial navy uniform, leaning from a carriage window. He had a neat beard and white sideburns, and his bright blue eyes studied Pazel keenly. It was a moment before Pazel noticed that the carriage was the most elegant he had ever seen.
The old man frowned, stuck his head farther out through the window and looked up. Following his gaze, Pazel found himself looking at a girl his own age. She had climbed to the roof of the carriage for a better view. She wore a man's clothing-jaquina shirt, breeches, a broad leather belt. She was extremely pretty, with a preposterous amount of straight golden hair falling to her waist, but her arms looked strong as a tarboy's. She also looked him straight in the eye, which was something noble-born girls never did. In fact, she smiled, a bright smile full of laughter-or mockery? Startled and suddenly shy, Pazel dropped his gaze.
'No bones smashed,' boomed the augrong suddenly, and set Pazel on the deck with a mighty thump. Pazel stumbled, dizzy and aching from head to toe. Neeps and Dastu caught him by the arms. But the rest of the crew backed away from him slightly, as if wondering what would next come out of his mouth.
Then Pazel saw Uskins glaring down at him from the quarterdeck.
'A meddler,' said the first mate. 'A clown. Do you know the captain's policy for dealing with clowns?'
There was an awful silence. Uskins crooked a finger, beckoning Pazel near.
It was at that instant that Mr. Frix, Firecracker Frix, bounded up the gangway. He had just been hauled out of the bay by sailors ashore, and seawater ran from his ears and shirt and breeches. Leaping onto the deck, he pointed at Pazel and let out a great soggy whoop.
'Saved!' he cried. 'That boy saved me life! Bless him, oh bless his wee little lion's heart! Hooray!' He capered in his private puddle, wet beard flapping, and waved both hands over his head. Then he scrambled onto a rum barrel and sang out again: 'Saved by the tarry, the tar-tar-tarry-boy! How's that for a wonder? Come on, boys! Three cheers for little Lionheart! Hip, hip-'
'Stand down, Mr. Frix!'
No mistaking that voice, which crashed through the hubbub like a cannonball. Even the augrongs turned their heads. Captain Rose was storming across the Plaza as quickly as his game leg allowed, face shining with wrath, a carriage stopped behind him with its door flapping still. He waved as he neared the gangway: 'To your stations, you gawking gulls! Clear out! Give a man room to board his vessel! And bring that other beast up after me! What fool separated them?'
All eyes snapped to the first mate. Uskins glowered and chewed his lips, but he put on a look of humble martyrdom when Rose's own eyes found him.
'Take the augrongs below, Mr. Uskins,' said Rose grimly. 'I will hear your report ere we leave the capital.' Then the captain raised his voice to an ear-shattering bellow: 'All hands! Welcome stations! Trumpets! Pennants! Hats! First watch to the yards! Move, you port-shoddy sheep! His Excellency's waiting to board!'
Everywhere, men flew to their tasks. Then Pazel understood: the man in the elegant coach was none other than Admiral Isiq, His Supremacy's new ambassador to Simja. And that blond girl, whose smile had left him feeling such a fool? Could that be his daughter?
Turnstile
Art thou my bloodkin, lost to storm these sundering years?
Shall I name thee brother?
My soul has shed the habit of love; trust is a thing forgotten.
Come not upon me silent, brother, lest you frighten me:
Who knows what I'll do then?
Fear this blade in my hand, brother, as I have learned to fear it.
9 Vaqrin 941
The old admiral had sent word: he wanted little fuss about his boarding. This was quite unlike the Eberzam Isiq of old, who returned from battles on half-ruined warships to a thunder of guns and a throng of well-wishers filling the Plaza of the Palmeries. To the reporter from the Etherhorde Mariner, a dumpy little man in a top hat with a bedraggled bow, it was all very suspicious. Why were there no public announcements? he demanded, beetling toward the ship at Isiq's elbow. Why was Chathrand outfitted in Sorrophran? Where were the banners, the podiums, the Imperial orchestra?
'There are trumpets on the quarterdeck,' growled Isiq. 'And more than enough sightseers.'
