head.
'Next!' shouted Chadfallow, pounding his fist on a table. 'Who's nearest to sleep? Raise your heads, look me in the eye!'
An assortment of oddities lay spread before him. Pills, potions, creams, a jar of blue seeds, a dry and blackened lungfish. The men raised weary hands. One man swallowed seeds, and dropped in mid-chew. Another bit off part of the lungfish, chewed with great concentration, and dropped to the floor. Fegin drank something from a green flask. He groaned and turned rather green himself, then lowered himself to the wall. 'I'd like to… apologise,' he said, as his head lolled forwards.
Chadfallow's speed increased. He popped items into waiting mouths. 'Swamp myrtle,' he said. 'Bodendel marshfly. Endolithic spore.' But the men continued to drop. In frustration Chadfallow swept all the failed substances to the floor. He tore at his hair. 'All right, damn it: Thermopile Red — that should keep a man working for a week! Drink it, Byrd! Drain the cup! Don't shut your blary eyes!'
When Byrd fell, unrevived by Thermopile Red, the doctor let himself sink into a chair. Only he, Thasha, Pazel and Fulbreech remained. He looked at them and sighed. But before the sigh ended it had become a yawn.
That yawn frightened Pazel immensely. At the same time he felt a cloudiness descend on his brain, and a weight in his limbs, and knew his time was close.
He staggered forwards and shook the doctor. 'Fight it, Ignus! Think! We're counting on you!'
'Don't,' muttered Chadfallow.
'None of these are strong enough,' said Thasha. 'What have you got that's stronger?'
'Nothing,' said the doctor, shaking his head. 'No use… too late.'
'The Chadfallow I know would never talk that way, while life remained in him,' said a voice from the passage.
It was Hercol, supporting himself with a hand on the doorframe. He lurched into sickbay, jaw clenched and eyes heavy, as though staving off the blane through sheer force of will. 'What's left?' he said. 'No — don't answer. What is dangerous, ludicrously dangerous? What is against your ethics to try?'
At the sight of his old friend the doctor opened his eyes a little wider. He looked sceptically at the items before him, understanding Hercol's challenge, and appalled by it. He fumbled through the items, knocking several irritably aside. Suddenly he stopped, and looked at Pazel in wonder.
'A cocktail,' he said. 'A blary three-part heathen cocktail. Fulbreech! The key, my desk, the black bottle. Hurry, run!'
Fulbreech ran across the ward. The doctor, meanwhile, lifted a tiny, round metal box, with a painting of a blue dragon on the lid. 'Break the seal,' he said, passing it to Pazel. 'My hand shakes too much; I will spill it, and there is precious little.'
'What is it?' asked Hercol.
'Thundersnuff. A stimulant, putrid, exceptional. Part of a mad Quezan cocktail, they use it as punishment for sloth. If only I can remember the third ingredient. Something very common, it was… cloves, or horseradish…'
Fulbreech returned with a bottle, black and unmarked. 'There's some mistake, sir, this is grebel.'
Grebel! Pazel nearly dropped the little box. It was the nightmare liquor, the madness drink. He'd had it forced on him as punishment, by certain sadistic men on other ships. Fear, panic, hallucinations — these were all he recalled of the experiences. Except'I didn't sleep,' he said. 'I didn't sleep for days! But that was just because of the fear, wasn't it?'
'Salt!' said the doctor, ignoring him and surging to his feet. 'The third ingredient is salt! I have gypsum salt, it will do, we can chew it — here!'
He snatched a leather pouch from the floor, ripped at the drawstring, and took a large pinch of gravel-like salt. Without preamble he gulped it, crunched it audibly in his teeth, and grabbed the bottle from Fulbreech. He favoured the grebel with a look of loathing and respect. Then he tilted the bottle and drank.
'Glah! Horrid! Quick!'
He gestured at the little box. Pazel unscrewed the lid, breaking the seal. Inside was a teaspoon's worth of fine red dust. The doctor bent until his nose was directly over the box. He covered one nostril and sniffed. Then he began to scream.
'OH DEVILS! OH GODS OF FLAMING DEATH!'
He straightened, spasmodically, as Pazel had seen men do when stunned by a Flikkerman. He gave an incoherent roar.
'It's working!' said Fulbreech.
Looks of terror and wild mirth chased themselves across the doctor's face. He reeled, clutching at the air. Grebel sloshed from the bottle in his hand.
Hercol caught the doctor's arms. 'Hold on man! It will pass!'
Chadfallow thrust the swordsman aside and bent over the table. He put his forehead down, moaning. In his grip the table began to vibrate. Then, shaking violently, he raised his head to look at them, and spoke through chattering teeth:
'Twice… the… grebel… half… the… snuff.'
Those were his last coherent words. Fortunately they were the right ones. When the others had chewed the salt, swallowed the grebel and inhaled the tiniest whiff of thundersnuff, they felt weird and sick, but not deranged. Chadfallow for his part sat grinning, hugging himself, occasionally letting out a strangled scream.
'Well, we're awake,' said Thasha, twitching. 'But there's no more grebel — Chadfallow spilled half of it on the floor. We're not going to be able to give this treatment to anyone.'
'And a hundred monsters in the hold, waiting for their chance,' said Fulbreech.
'Or more,' said Hercol. 'And there is no way to know how much time we have gained. No matter — we shall fight the fight we are given. But be careful! You are not yourselves. Above all, beware your courage. It may be heightened beyond all reason, and lead swiftly to your death. Pazel, are you quite all right?'
'Yeah,' said Pazel, sniffing. 'Just hot. I feel like I'm standing next to a fire.'
'The grebel came around to you last,' said Hercol. 'I wonder if you had enough?'
'I left him half of what came to me,' said Fulbreech quickly.
'I'm all right,' Pazel insisted. 'But listen. We can't do this alone. It's blary impossible. We're going to need-'
'Prayer,' said a voice from the doorway, 'though what mongrel god might answer you I cannot guess.'
It was Arunis. Pazel, who had not seen him since Bramian, was shocked by the change in his appearance. He had lost all the round plumpness of Mr Ket. His face was pale, almost spectral, and a deathly light shone in his eyes. He gripped his cruel iron mace in one hand, and in the other the neck of a large and bulging sack. He looked amused at the sight of the doctor.
'The Imperial Surgeon,' he jeered. 'Prince of Arquali intellectuals. Whatever you have done to him is an improvement.'
To Pazel's surprise it was Fulbreech who spoke first. 'Get away, sorcerer! You don't deserve to breathe the same air as this man! And if you have any powers at all, use them to reverse what you did to the rats.'
'I?' laughed Arunis. 'You witless dog! I have done nothing to the rats! You humans left the Nilstone in a compartment overrun with fleas. You humans failed to notice an ixchel clan in your midsts, or a woken rat possessed by holy lunacy. Yes, I work for your destruction as a race, noble cause that that is. But how little you force me to do! My only fear is that the Chathrand 's crew of savages will destroy itself, before it carries us to Gurishal.'
'A noble cause was laid before you, long ago,' said Hercol. 'But you chose another path, and have cleaved to it ever since. It has made you very strong, and very empty. Will you not abandon it, Arunis? There is still time to choose a new purpose — a higher purpose, beyond your poisoned dreams.'
'Spare me the sermon,' jeered Arunis. 'Delusion is not to my taste. Was ever a life more empty than your own, Hercol Stanapeth? Where has your higher purpose led? You could have been Ott's successor — the brain behind the Ametrine Throne. You could have been the most powerful man in your Empire. But instead you chose fantasy — a mist of promises and hopes. And so did the rest of you. Where is Ramachni? Where is your father, girl? A safer place than the Chathrand, that is where! And the crawlies! For months you denied their true nature. You couldn't admit that they were simply beasts, born rabid, ready to kill. You wanted them to be your tiny brothers. You wished to befriend them, or-' He looked at Hercol with disgust. '-to train them to perform… other
