'Well Dri was one of the seven, and she's gone. That means we're failing. Why don't you tell me the blary truth.' Pazel rose and paced a few steps away, shaking with frustration. The low roar of the Vortex throbbed in his ears. Suddenly he stopped dead. He took a deep breath, and spoke without turning.
'I'm sorry. I can't believe I said that. I know we mustn't fail.'
'You already have,' said Ramachni.
Pazel whirled around. Ramachni was standing as still as before, watching him with those black eyes that always made him think of bottomless pits — yet never of cruelty, until this moment.
'Are you laughing at me?' said Pazel.
'No,' said the mage, 'I am telling the truth, as you demanded. And the truth is that I don't see how you can do as Erithusme hoped you would, when she built the Red Wolf. One of the seven has died, and yes, all seven had something vital to do. I cannot tell you what, for I don't know myself: the plan was hers, not mine. But now I think it very likely that Arunis will succeed in finding a way to use the Nilstone. If he does, he will set fire to this garden called Alifros, and there will be no Master-Word mighty enough to put that fire out.'
'But we were chosen-'
'You were chosen because you had the best chance of success. A chance is not a destiny, Pazel. The latter was always in your hands, and yours alone.'
Pazel couldn't believe his ears. If there was one being he never thought would admit defeat, it was Ramachni. He felt abandoned, and at the same time he felt that he had let everyone down. Everyone. His mother and father. Old Captain Nestef, the first Arquali sailor who believed in him. The tarboy Reyast, who had died helping them uncover the conspiracy. Diadrelu. Thasha and Neeps and Hercol and Fiffengurt. Even Fiffengurt's child. He felt, irrationally, that he had betrayed them all.
It took him a moment to find his voice; when he did, it sounded lifeless and small. 'Fine, then. We've failed. You're the wise one, Ramachni. What do you propose we do?'
'At the moment I see but two options,' said the mage. 'You can take a running leap from the rail of the Chathrand. Or you can fight on, although that may require you to live with failure-'
'Or die with it,' said Pazel.
'-or to redefine success to fit your circumstances.'
'What does that mean? Do you think we stand a chance, or not?'
'Of course you stand a chance,' said the mage. 'Pazel, the world is not a music box, built to grind out the same song for ever. A man with your Gift ought to know that any song may spring from this world — and any future. If Erithusme's plan for the Nilstone is thwarted, why, seek another way. And now I must give you a message for Arunis.'
'But I told you,' said Pazel, 'he disappeared. I'm hoping the rats ate him, personally.'
'Arunis is alive and on this ship. That much I can sense even at the distance of a dream. When he emerges from hiding, you can be sure that it will not be to talk. But I would suggest you do not wait — find him, pry him out of his den. And if you do speak to him before I have the pleasure, tell him that the bear was nothing. Can you remember that?'
' 'The bear was nothing,' ' said Pazel, dumbfounded.
Ramachni nodded. Suddenly he shook himself, head to tail, a movement of satisfaction and eagerness. 'My strength comes back to me,' he said. 'When you see me next you will not be dreaming. Then you shall learn what it is to have a wizard fight at your side. Unless of course you decide to take that leap.'
'Now you are laughing.'
'A bit, lad. But don't be angry, for I love you like a son. And that is a blessing for an ancient creature like myself, who never had children, and whose first family is so many centuries dead that even he begins to forget them. Remember: I will come when things are dark — terribly dark, darker than you thought to see.'
'Can't you tell me what that means?' begged Pazel.
'If I knew, don't you think I would say so? I am a prisoner to these riddles every bit as much as you, although I hear them from another source. But here in the wake of riddles is a fact: I am proud of you all. Fiercely proud, of your goodness and your strength. And now, Pazel, it is time for us both to WAKE UP.'
His last words exploded like a cannon shot, and with them he disappeared. Pazel had no sense of falling, but he was suddenly flat on the deck again. Thasha stirred beside him, filthy with ash and grime, and from all around them came the groans and exclamations of waking men.
40
16 (?) Ilbrin 941
The Honourable Captain Theimat Rose
Northbeck Abbey, Mereldin Isle, South Quezans
Dear Sir,
Never were there stranger circumstances for a letter. I do not know whether to address you with pride or shame, so rather than either I shall begin with a warning: you must henceforth assume that the Lady Oggosk will read every letter you send me. She has not changed a wire hair from the days when she used to waddle into your house without wiping her shoes. She is a vulgar, conniving, calculating hag. And yet — grudgingly, and at great cost — she does perform the services of a nautical witch. I tolerate her because I cannot replace her.
Have I failed, or triumphed? The duchess and I are prisoners of a clan of ixchel, along with our sailmaster, the Turach commander, and eleven other persons. I confess I do not know what to make of events; the disasters are so many and varied. Perhaps the worst of them all is a man by the name of Uskins. But I am getting ahead of myself.
The Chathrand, it appears, has been infested since Etherhorde. The crawlies have taken absolute control; they walk the decks openly, to the revulsion of the crew (except for Pathkendle and his cohorts, who knew of their presence and did nothing). Their tactics are exceedingly cunning. Besides the aforementioned prisoners they have taken Dr Chadfallow, the Plapp and Burnscove gang leaders, Sandor Ott, the stowaway girl Marila (the ship lice mistrust even their sympathizers, apparently), the tarboy brothers Swift and Saroo, two additional Turachs, and, for good measure, the thing that calls itself Belesar Bolutu. We are crammed into the anteroom of the forecastle house, that outer cabin by which one enters Oggosk's hovel, the smithy, and the henhouse.
Our captor appears to be a young crawly messiah; he goes about in a suit of feathers, and a brooding funk, now gloating, now fearful and suspicious. A deranged but nubile crawly girl attends this figure, and chides and bullies the others into acts of devotion. Simulated acts, in many cases. They do not all beam at him with the fawning love of his pretty acolytes, or his shaved-headed guards. His father is apparently somewhere aboard, and ruled before him, but is unwilling or unable to take up the mantle again.
The doors are not locked, but we are prisoners all the same. When we woke from the drugged sleep we found ourselves alone in the forecastle house. There were rope burns on our ankles, for we had been hoisted like so many slaughtered steers. How much time had passed I do not know: many hours, to be sure, for even with wheelblocks and six hundred crawlies it is no small feat to move a man. Our weapons were gone. In a corner of the room a little fire pot was burning, filling the room with a rather agreeable, sagebrush scent. We could hear the Vortex, like the gods' own millstone, ready to grind us down to flour. From the single window I could see the clouds forming spiral-patterns above it, and the Red Storm filling half the sky.
A scrap of parchment was nailed to the topdeck door. It was a 'cordial notice,' explaining that anyone who left the cabin would die. It was signed by this selfsame messiah, whose name is absurdly unpronounceable. Below his name ran the words COMMANDER OF THE EX–IMPERIAL SHIP CHATHRAND AND HER LIBERATED CREW.
At this provocation I flung open the door, and seeing only my own startled men on the topdeck, going about the business of hacking the burned rigging down from the masts, I stormed out, shouting for Uskins. But no sound escaped my lips. I collapsed in agony, my lungs simply aflame. Nearly senseless, I dragged myself back into the forecastle house, and felt relief at my first breath of the scented air. Only the fresh breeze through the door brought
