the sound of voices raised in anger.
'What is it?' Pazel cried. 'A fight?'
'Fight?' someone echoed, not looking back. 'That's just what I said!'
'Fight! Fight!'
Too late, Pazel realised that none of the men knew what they were running towards. But his offhand word seemed to be what everyone wanted, and as they ran it spread around them like an oil fire. Men seized knives and bottles and boarding-pikes, off-duty marines snatched up their spears.
'A damned riot, that's what!'
'Plapps versus Burnscovers!'
'Can't be! Rose would skin 'em alive!'
There was a stampede on the ladderway. Pazel and Neeps were carried upwards past the main deck, where still more sailors jammed the stair, and were spat with the rest into the dazzling sunlight near the foremast. The jeers and shouts grew louder. Pazel leaped up on the fife rail and shielded his eyes.
'Oh Pitfire,' he said.
The Jistrolloq was lying alongside Chathrand, barely a yardarm between them, and an even larger crowd of Mzithrinis — all bearing weapons — had thronged to her rail, bellowing and chanting.
'Waspodin! Waspodin!'
'What are they saying, Pazel?' Neeps shouted.
Pazel jumped down again, foreboding like a sickness in his belly. 'Don't repeat it, whatever you do,' he whispered. 'They're chanting 'murderers'.'
Neeps' mouth fell open. At the bow, the taunts were growing louder.
'All hail the Great Peace,' said a voice from behind them, acidly.
It was Lady Oggosk. The boys drew instinctively away. They had long counted the old witch among their enemies. True, she had turned on Syrarys and Sandor Ott just a few days ago, and Thasha had some murky idea about her being in a secret order connected to the Lorg. But Pazel didn't much care. Oggosk was the lifetime servant of Captain Rose, and he wanted nothing to do with her.
'Do you know what's happening, Duchess?' he asked cautiously.
'Treachery, that's what,' said Oggosk. 'Base scheming, and not our own sort. Last night the Father was assaulted.'
'Whose father?' cried Pazel.
She looked at him, and seemed to comprehend a great deal. 'Not Isiq. Forget Isiq. He was doomed from the start.'
The shouts were growing dangerous. Pazel stared at the old woman, trying to grasp what her words could possibly mean. At last, sensing that she would tell him no more, he turned to go. But before he had taken a step her clawlike hand seized his arm.
'Where is her body?' she demanded.
Pazel pulled his arm out of her grasp. 'With friends,' he said, 'where it's going to stay.'
The boys pushed forwards. At the spot where the two ships were nearest the shouts became deafening. The White Reaper was nearly motionless, lying to on a single topsail beside the anchored Chathrand. She was over half their length, which made her the biggest vessel Pazel had ever seen after the Great Ship herself. And while the Chathrand 's cannon were formidable enough, the Jistrolloq's were awe-inspiring: row upon row of massive forty- eight-pounders; longer weapons for distant targets, thick-bodied 'smasher' carronades, gleaming bronze culverins at the stern. Platforms across her topdeck sported giant crossbow-like ballistas, and grappling-guns that could hook another vessel and tear out its rigging. There was no mistaking the Jistrolloq for anything but a weapon of war.
Fortunately no one was manning those guns: at present the Mzithrinis were content to threaten their old enemies with swords, spears and curses. The Jistrolloq's deck stood twenty feet lower than the Chathrand's, so the furious mob had crowded onto the forecastle, and up the masts and shrouds. From all points her men launched the accusation: Waspodin!
At the Chathrand 's starboard rail some twenty tarboys were squeezing and shoving for a view. Dastu stood among them, calmer than the rest. 'Pazel, over here!' he called, making room. 'What are they blary saying, mate? What's that word?'
Pazel scanned the Mzithrini faces, trying to think how he might get out of answering. At the back of the Jistrolloq's forecastle stood three black-cloaked sfvantskors. They did not shout, but their eyes had depths of rage beyond any of their countrymen. One was older, a man of thirty or thirty-five. The others were in their twenties, their faces hard and menacing.
'You're lookin' at them sfanksters, ain't ye?' said another tarboy, whose nickname was Fishhook. 'There was more of 'em a minute ago — and one was a girl.'
'A girl?' said Pazel sharply.
'Fishhook's right,' said Dastu. 'But the girl didn't stay on deck very long. Just took one good look at us and ran for the ladderway. I thought she was going to cry.'
Pazel thought of the masked girl at the wedding, whose voice still echoed in his mind. Could that have been her? Had she been looking for him again?
The Mzithrinis grew louder. Nor were the Arqualis content to be out-screamed: some accused the Mzithrinis of killing Thasha — hadn't they pricked her with a knife, just before she collapsed? Others demanded that they hand over Pacu Lapadolma.
'Blood-drinkers!' they howled, red-faced. 'Black rags! Want to get whipped like forty years ago?'
Pazel could scarcely recognise his shipmates. Were these the same people who had witnessed Arunis' black magic two days ago? The men who had run in terror from the fleshancs? Where had they found this courage, and this crazy pride? They didn't know what they were being accused of, but they were damned well going to deny it. And though they hated and feared Arunis, the sight of their old enemies brought out a deeper loathing, almost a mania. Arqual, Arqual, just and true.
He looked around wildly for an officer. At last he caught site of Mr Uskins, pressed bodily against the rail. But to his horror he saw that the first mate was egging the sailors on. 'Told you, didn't I?' Uskins screamed. 'Never trust a Sizzy!'
Suddenly a man on the Jistrolloq pulled himself up into the foremast shrouds. He was a strong, lean man of middle years, and he climbed nimbly, reaching the shielded archery platform called the fighting top in less than a minute. From his bearing and his gold epaulettes, and the way Mzithrini faces began to turn in his direction, Pazel knew he was their commander.
'That's Admiral Kuminzat,' said Dastu. 'Scary looking bloke.'
The officer stretched out his hand above the crowd. At once the Mzithrinis fell silent. Startled, the Arqualis too broke off shouting for an instant. Before they could resume the man pointed his finger and spoke.
'Deceiver. You have killed the Babqri Father.'
Kuminzat spoke in his own tongue, and no sign of understanding passed over the Arquali crowd. But all eyes looked where he pointed. There at the back of the mob, silent and until this moment unnoticed, stood Captain Rose. Lady Oggosk had hobbled to his side; Rose leaned down and let her whisper in his ear.
And suddenly the captain was looking right at Pazel. 'Not a word from anyone,' he said aloud, and there was a threatening rumble in his voice. 'Get over here, Pathkendle.'
The crew parted in silence. Pazel took a deep breath and crossed the deck, Neeps at his side.
As Pazel had already guessed, Rose wanted him to translate the Mzithrini's words. Pazel did so, and Rose nodded grimly.
'Tell him we know nothing of any deaths but our own,' he said, loud enough for all to hear. 'Tell him only a fool throws accusations like that around — or one with a guilty conscience of his own.'
'Tell him nothing of the kind!'
The voice rang out from the Chathrand 's bowsprit. It was Ignus Chadfallow. Despite a stinging distrust of his old benefactor, Pazel was relieved: Chadfallow at least was no hothead — and he too spoke Mzithrini.
Chadfallow seized the jib stay, and pulled himself onto the planksheer above the crowded forecastle. His voice rang out sharp and clear in Mzithrini:
'Admiral Kuminzat. Sailors of the Pentarchy. No one aboard this ship has attacked you.'
