were looking in the direction of the Chathrand, which loomed like a sea fortress three miles offshore.
Their faces lit up at the sight of Pazel. 'Welcome back, fool,' said Neeps.
Pazel didn't argue the point. 'What are we going to do now?' he said.
'First, get Thasha back to the Chathrand,' said Hercol. 'When that is done, we shall seek another way to reveal Arqual's plot to the world. A way that doesn't require tarboys to play cat and mouse with assassins.'
'That'll be a pleasant change,' said Neeps, watching the bay. 'Dancing devils! Why are those rowers so slow?'
'Because you're watching 'em,' said Fiffengurt.
Pazel paced the dock, trying not to look at the bundle at Hercol's feet. After an interminable wait the skiff reached the pier. The men at oars saw Thasha and began shouting at once: 'Who did it, Mr Fiffengurt? Who would lay a finger on her? Can we kill him, sir?'
Lowering Thasha into the boat was an undignified affair. The Babqri love-knot slipped, and her golden hair spilled onto the slimy floor. They could not stretch her out, and at last placed her feet on the bench between the rowers. Neeps tried to clean her hair on his trousers.
The sailors wept. Like most of the crew they had not cared much for the Treaty Bride at first. Noble-born passengers came and went, often greeting sailors, if at all, with a barely disguised sneer. The men returned the favour, and accounts of first-class ignorance, seasickness, fear of rats and fleas and bedbugs and general uselessness were traded like hard candies on the lower decks.
But they had not sneered long at Thasha Isiq. Rather than fine food or bleached petticoats she had wished for a chance to climb the masts or explore the black cavern of the hold. She was also a virtuoso swearer: a lifetime of eavesdropping on captains, commodores and other guests at her father's table had made her a walking scrapbook of naval curses. By the Chathrand 's first landfall men were boasting of her beauty, and when a rumour spread that she had flattened a pair of thuggish tarboys in a brawl, they had added ferocity to her list of virtues. She was 'a good 'un,' they decided, and there was no higher praise.
A sudden voice from the Chathrand: 'What is this, Quartermaster?'
It was Captain Rose. The red-bearded man was studying them with intense suspicion, his enormous hands gripping the rail. Beside him stood Lady Oggosk, his witch-seer, old eyes gleaming from beneath a faded shawl.
Before Fiffengurt could reply, Hercol shouted: 'This, Rose, is the end of your conspiracy — and what will concern you far less, the end of one nobler than certain minds can grasp.'
'I've seen enough of corpses. Bury that one in Simja, whoever he is.'
Hercol reached out and uncovered Thasha's face, now deathly grey.
'You would do well not to impede the return of Thasha to Etherhorde. His Supremacy will wish to pay his respects.'
'What, what?' cried Oggosk. 'The girl is dead?'
'I believe I just said that, Duchess.'
Rose did not stand in their way. Indeed he helped by clearing the deck of all but essential hands. Nonetheless as the lifeboat drew alongside the towering vessel, Pazel heard cries of anguish and disbelief. Oggosk's voice had carried: the news was already loose on the ship.
The davit-lines were made fast, and heave by heave the men of the watch hauled the lifeboat up the ship's flank.
'Line a casket with paraffin,' said Rose when they reached the topdeck. 'We'll send ashore for an embalmer.'
'Dr Chadfallow will do,' said Hercol.
Rose nodded. 'She was brave. I am saddened by this.'
Pazel looked at him with fury. Liar.
Across the deck men stood gaping, holding their caps. Lady Oggosk muttered a prayer. As they lifted Thasha from the boat, the witch suddenly put a hand on the girl's cold, colourless forehead. Oggosk's milk-blue eyes opened wide. She turned her gaze on Pazel, and for a moment he was transfixed. It was as if she could see right through him.
'What have you done?' she whispered.
With a great effort Pazel wrenched his gaze away. Oggosk stepped back, but Pazel seemed to feel her eyes drilling at a point between his shoulders as they crossed the endless topdeck, silent but for creaks of the rigging and the sighs of stricken men.
Demons of cruelty had sewn his wedding shoes.
Half a mile behind the bearers of Thasha's corpse, Admiral Isiq kicked the silk things into the roadside brush. At once he felt better. He had been no poor runner once — ages ago, before his first command — and the feel of dry, dung-laced earth on his bare feet summoned memories of Turam, the old Isiq homestead in the Westfirth, where his father had killed a marauding bear with just a hunting knife. He loosened his cravat. He was gaining on them.
Behind him, the mob wailed in their thousands. Soon the youngest would catch up, shout their sympathies, get in his way. He broke into a cautious run. Misery it seemed, like fury, could give one strength.
I've lost my girl. Lost her mother twelve years before. Lost Syrarys — she was ever my foe but I possessed her body, her hands, possessed a lovely illusion. Even that they have taken from me. But not this body, you bastards, you filth. Not this mind pitted against you for ever.
He was thinking of his Emperor, and Rose, and above all Sandor Ott. Arunis might have killed Thasha, but Ott had spun the web in which the sorcerer found her, hopelessly tangled. Arunis had come out of nowhere; Ott had shadowed Isiq for years, disguised as an honour guardsman.
By the Gods, it felt good to run again. The road burned the soles of his feet and each slap said, You live, you can act, you have nothing left to fear.
He saw now what he had to do. Thasha's sacrifice meant the prophecy was annulled: no stirrings of revolution would begin on Gurishal, no preparations for the return of their god. But the Shaggat remained. So did the will to make him flesh again. Above all, so did the Nilstone.
Which meant that some other vessel would have to bear his daughter home: the Chathrand must never leave this port. And there was only one power in the Bay of Simja that could stop it. For all their show of guns, the Mzithrini ships would never dare to act against an Arquali vessel. Not here anyway, before the eyes of the world. But King Oshiram would have every right. Simja's navy might be a pitiful thing, but ten or twelve warships were surely enough to hold the Chathrand, immense as she was. You never dreamed I would go this far. You have counted on my blind love of Arqual, my soldier's oath. You will regret it.
Thasha's body passed through the North Gate, and Isiq was but minutes behind. The flower-collectors pointed the way. He would be mortally sick with fatigue when this task was done. But done it would be, and let the night come after.
'Your Excellency!'
He raised his eyes: a dark two-horse carriage was pulling up to the corner. The driver reined the animals in, but it was not he who had called to Isiq. On the seat beside the man sat the same well-dressed youth who had approached Hercol in the procession.
'Your valet bid me fetch you a carriage, sir.'
'Kind… not necessary…' Isiq found he could barely speak.
'Bless me, sir, you're unshod!'
The young man leaped down, ran to Isiq and took his arm. By the time they reached the corner the driver had opened the door and placed the footstool. The inside of the carriage was plush and empty. Isiq paused and stared at the boy.
'Who-?'
'Greysan Fulbreech, Ambassador. King's clerk, and your humble servant. Come, we shall reach the port in no time.'
He whipped a fresh handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to Isiq. The admiral mopped the sweat from his bald head and entered the carriage. A moment later the driver cracked his whip and they were off, and at startling speed.
But why were they turning? He was quite sure the port lay dead ahead. Isiq groped at the door and found no
