they're obeying.'
Talag retched and shouted, tearing at his gag. Taliktrum wept openly as he cut him free. 'You lived,' he managed to say. 'The rat taunted me, said he had something I wanted more than life itself. I never dreamed it could be you.'
The gag parted, and Talag spat it out. He made a raw and painful sound.
'Don't try to speak too soon, m'lord,' said one of the Dawn Soldiers.
Talag shoved him away. He bolted upright, even though his legs were still tied to the staff. 'The rats!' he croaked, his voice a husk. 'They go to die! Stop them, girl, stop them! Bring them back!'
'Father, you're ill!' cried Taliktrum. 'They're our enemies, even though they kept you alive!'
'Ill, am I?' snapped Talag. He drew his hand roughly over Taliktrum's chest, then rubbed his thumb and finger together. 'Lamp oil, you fool! Every rat aboard has bathed in it! They're killing themselves! They're going to free their souls upon the air! They're going to heaven on a plume of smoke!'
The horror of what he was saying struck Pazel like a club. Thasha gasped and sprinted from the room. Pazel chased after her, amazed that she had found yet another reserve of strength. 'Mugstur!' she shouted. 'Stop! I command you!'
But the power had left her voice, and the rats were far away. As they neared the Silver Stair Pazel realised he did not even know if they had run up or down. They skidded to a halt, listening.
'They're beneath us!' said Pazel, starting to plunge downwards. But Thasha caught his arm, and he listened again.
He cursed. 'And above us! Mugstur could have gone either way, and-Oh, damn it all! Look!'
Three hundred feet away cross the central compartment, flames leaped suddenly in the gloom. They were rats, burning like living torches, and they were running this way and that, biting one another, setting each other alight. Those not yet on fire screamed at those that were: 'This way! Bless me, cleanse me, brother!' Then twenty or more rat voices rose in song:
Faith on fire, smoke on high,
Rin's first Angel, see me die.
Rise in ash to heaven's nest,
Rin's Rat-Angel, love me best!
Pazel would have found it hard to imagine things getting much worse. But they did, considerably. Thasha was still holding his arm, and when he looked at her he saw tears of frustrated rage.
'No good,' she said, nearly sobbing. 'I'm no good, I wreck everything, you're about to die, do you love me?'
'What?'
Thasha fell asleep in his arms.
He shed her father's sword, and thrust Ildraquin through his belt in its place. He caught her under the arms. What could he do, and what did it matter, now? It didn't, he thought. The fog was in his brain again; he felt stupid and slow. But he would not abandon her. He would not let her burn among the rats.
The first climb was easy. He kept her body high, and bore much of her weight against his chest. But after the berth deck he slipped in blood or oil, and fell painfully, and when he lifted her again she felt heavier, somehow. At the lower gun deck he had to put her down and clear dead rats from the ladderway. The upper gun deck was bright with flames.
When he emerged into the open air the scene was infernal. The sky throbbed red in the south; lightning crackled over the still-closer Vortex. At least fifty rats had clearly made straight for the topdeck, and set themselves aflame when they reached it. Many had not stopped there, but had pulled themselves burning up the masts and shrouds. The tarred rigging snatched at the flame; already the mizzen topsail was alight.
Hallucination? thought Pazel hopefully. Then he gave a sobbing laugh. The stench of burned fur, the wafting heat, the swollen, blazing animals leaping crazed from the yardarms: it was all too abominably real. And so was blane. He stumbled, rose with effort, dragged Thasha a few more yards. Then he sat down and propped her head on his lap, brushed her dirty hair from her eyes, and kissed her the way he'd wanted to for so long.
This is where it ends, Thasha.
The flame was widespread, fore and aft. Somewhere ixchel were shouting, cursing, muttering their ambiguous prayers. He thought, My mind is the ship. Three hundred cabins full of smoke, full of fog. Nothing stirring much longer. No more fighting to be done.
A rat lumbered towards them in flames, shrieking. Pazel watched it, too sleepy even to move his hand to Ildraquin. The creature stopped a few yards from their feet and bowed its head, and Pazel realised he was looking at Master Mugstur. The white rat settled on to his thick stomach and lay burning like a hideous beacon in the wind. Most of the others were already dead.
Pazel bent and kissed her once more. He closed his eyes, shutting out the world, shutting out everything but Thasha's lips, her gentle breathing. They should have done more of this. What exactly had they been waiting for?
The fog crept into the last chamber of his brain. He rested his forehead on her shoulder, and was still.
And then he raised his head, mouth agape, and blinked at the raging fire. And very much as a question he spoke the Master-Word.
39
He stood alone on a blackened ship, among the sleeping and the slain. Ashes, stone cold, were blowing from tattered sails that a moment ago had been sheets of fire. The Chathrand pitched and wallowed on the swells, revolving, perhaps accelerating. He looked for Thasha but could not find her. The deep thunder of the Vortex was the only sound.
He staggered to portside, gazing at the Red Storm, so close now that he could make out the texture of the light within it. Somehow it was both gaseous and glass-sharp, cloud and broken mirror at once. He wondered what it would do to them, if they reached it at all.
Portside was east when he started walking, but with the spin of the ship it was west before he arrived. He turned on his heel and ran in the opposite direction, and was quick enough this time to glimpse the Vortex, hideously close, a malevolent hole too big to contemplate, inhaling everything. It was a flaw the size of Rukmast, an obscene violation of the shape of the sea.
Not out of the saucepot yet.
An ixchel raced across the quarterdeck. Pazel raised a hand in greeting, but he might as well have been a shred of flapping sailcloth for all the notice the runner took. The ash coated the deck like dirty snow. He came to where Fiffengurt lay sleeping, bent and wiped his face, and shook him gently.
'Wake up.'
Fiffengurt slept on. Ten yards or so from the quartermaster a boy he didn't recognise lay in a strange, half- seated position, bending over another figure, who looked in danger of being smothered. Pazel crossed the deck and pulled the boy upright by the shirt.
Oh.
He jerked his hand away. The boy fell back on the deck, and it was him, it was Pazel himself. Asleep like everyone else on the deck. He lay with Thasha's head in his lap, just where he'd spoken the Master-Word.
He felt a slight tingling at his shoulder, and realised that he had sensed his own touch. And yes, even as he stood here, he was dimly aware of the weight of Thasha's head upon his thigh.
He thought a walk might do him good, and descended the Silver Stair to the upper gun deck. The smells were hideous. Scorched blood and snuffed-out rat. He gagged and ducked into the stateroom.
Neeps lay where Hercol had left him, on the rug between Jorl and Suzyt. All three were snoring. There was not a trace of fire damage. Pazel felt a startling affection for the familiar chamber, where no enemy had entered yet. It was becoming home.
