INDIGENTS carved above the threshhold.
There Pazel had at last torn one hand free of the man's bear-hug, and in perfect desperation emptied the purse of sixteen gold at his feet. The constable saw his error at once: Pazel was no debtor, he was a thief. But he withdrew this charge as well when Pazel raked half the coins into a little pile beside the man's black boot.
By the time he at last reached the docks no one from the Chathrand was left ashore. Even worse, no one recalled seeing a contingent from the Great Ship, bearing a wounded man. It was a horrible, helpless feeling: Hercуl was simply gone.
Pazel had accomplished one small thing. A pair of horsemen had passed him, trotting swift and grim toward the port. Their bright eyes and lean wolfhound faces reminded him suddenly of Hercуl. Sure enough, when he ran after them, he heard them speaking Tholjassan.
When he shouted in their own tongue they wheeled their horses around.
'What ho? By your face you are no Tholjassan, yet you speak like one.'
'I'm an Ormali, sir, but I've lost a Tholjassan friend. He is wounded, and I fear for his life.'
Their faces darkened as he told them of Hercуl's disappearance. 'I shall alert the Tholjassan Consul,' said one. 'Lad, we thank you. But we are in haste for an even more terrible reason. News came with the dawn: our coast is under siege, and children have been taken hostage. We sail this hour for Tholjassa.'
'Is it war?' asked Pazel, horrified. But the rider shook his head.
'Piracy, more likely. Yet war may come of it. We Tholjassans never start a fight, but we have finished many.'
And off they raced without another word. Moments later Pazel realized that any ship bound for Tholjassa would pass close to Ormael, and flew to the port. But when he located the ship her first mate said that they could not squeeze another man aboard, and would in any case be making landfall at Talturi, not Ormael. Worse still, no Ormael-bound ship was expected for at least a week. If he was to have enough money left for his passage, Pazel would have to survive in Uturphe on less than half of what he'd expected.
Over a queasy dinner (cabbage and rice in snail oil) Pazel decided to try the Blackwell Street inn. Mr. Swellows' recommendation seemed almost reason enough to avoid the place-but then again, a cheap, safe bed was what he needed. He couldn't afford any luxury.
A baker pointed the way: past Wriggle Square, around the scrap-yard, left at the knife shop on the corner. The last turn brought him to Blackwell Street-but how narrow and dark it was! Had he made a mistake? No: here was the stone archway, and the green-tinted lamplight the baker had mentioned. The door in the arch stood open. Beyond it Pazel saw a courtyard, with some kind of urn or fountain at the center.
'Hello!'
Immediately a dark form rose to block his path. The figure was slightly shorter than Pazel, but very broad, with long arms and fingers. A red lantern on a hook behind him left his face in shadow but illuminated two enormous flat ears, like wild mushrooms sprouting on either side of his head.
'Stop!' hissed the man in a dry whisper. 'I do not know thee! Speak thy business or be gone!'
'Good evening!' said Pazel, quite startled. 'I want a room for the night, is all. I have money, truly! Mr. Swellows of the Chathrand sent me, with his compliments.'
The ears moved slightly, and Pazel guessed the man was smiling.
'Swellows? Ah, that is a different matter! Pass and be welcome!'
This was more to Pazel's liking. The man turned with a swish of his cloak, at the same time drawing a hood over his face, and led the way across the courtyard. How oddly he walked! Was he a hunchback? Such unfortunates often worked as night watchmen, Pazel knew, to escape the staring eyes of day.
The object in the center of the courtyard was a well, Pazel saw now. When they reached it his guide stopped and set one of his large hands upon the rim.
'Didst thou give money to Mittlebrug Swellows?' he asked sharply.
'Is that his first name?'
'Answer! Didst thou pay him?'
'No, sir. He gave me money, in fact.'
At that the figure gave a dry, wheezing laugh. 'He would as much.'
The man bent over the well and shouted one word-'Falurk!' And Pazel turned and ran for his life.
Swellows had sold him out. The word meant 'prisoner'-in what language he could not for the moment recall. But he knew who was to be imprisoned. The man (or thing) behind him gave a croak of surprise: clearly he had never dreamed the boy would understand.
Pazel made it through the stone arch. But even as he glimpsed the brighter streets beyond the alley something grabbed him by the ankle. It was a leather cord like a bullwhip, with a little iron ball at its tip. The ball whipped round his leg, and before Pazel could begin to unwind it he was yanked off his feet and dragged backward into the courtyard.
He drew his knife and slashed at the whip. Dark forms were hopping out of the well in twos and threes. Someone was closing the gate. He screamed, but a moist hand like the underside of a frog slapped over his mouth. A flash lit the hand like burning phosphor, and Pazel felt himself go limp.
The Flikkermen had him at last.
Birth of a Conspiracy
5 Modoli 941
53rd day from Etherhorde
The black rat was fighting for his life.
He had barely escaped the stomping heel of the tailor, and the teeth of Master Mugstur's Holy Guard, by diving back into the storm-pipe through the ixchel's door. There was no escape at the top of the pipe with the boy seated at Drellarek's door. So Felthrup had run the other way, down and aft, toward the stern transoms and the roaring of the sea. Other rats were plunging in the same direction, blind with fear. At first they ignored him. But the wind grew louder, nearer-and suddenly there was the mouth of the storm-pipe, wide open to the heaving, green- black harbor.
It was then that the rats turned on him.
'Cursed Felthrup!' they cried. 'Weird, sick, Angel-maimed! He shouted at the Master! He brought the crawlies to cut off our heads! Kill him, kill before he strikes again!'
'You're wrong!' Felthrup begged. 'I never meant you harm! Mugstur's the wicked one! He enslaves you!'
But they would not listen: horror was stealing what little reason they had. Felthrup saw what would happen next. The rats ahead and behind would close in, jaws snapping, making him turn at bay. He would fight them off for a while-they were cowardly enough-but when he grew tired they would bite and hold fast. Then he would be torn to shreds.
In that split second he regretted his woken state no more. His mind was fast-lightning-fast, too fast for any normal life, but perfect for now. He saw his options at a glance. Beg for mercy and die. Feign death and die. Fight back uphill against numberless rats sworn to kill him, to say nothing of the humans, and die.
Or do what he feared most: risk drowning, face the sea. That way too death was overwhelmingly likely. It was simply not guaranteed.
Five rats between him and the pipe's mouth. Five cousins to slay. Horror of horrors, to fill one's mouth with murder. He began.
They were expecting more tears and hysteria, not resolute killing. He went through the first two like a spear and grappled with the third in a scratching, tearing blood-blind frenzy that made it dive under him and squeal away up the pipe. The last two had backed up to the very lip, so their tails waved in the open air. They were big creatures, squared off and ready for his charge. Felthrup looked at their broad shoulders, their bared teeth. Their paws.
He leaped backward, past the bodies of the dead rats. The two at the pipe's end hissed, snapped their jaws. What was he waiting for?
