of 'a living man' he sent eighty of his least wounded footsoldiers into the ruins of Mirkitj's palace. Following a trampled and bloody path they found a door — once well hidden, now torn from its hinges — and descended by stages through the remains of the palace, the basements, sub-basements, and at last to the kiln.
Months of shock and revulsion would follow, as the statues were brought one by one into the daylight and their possible lineages debated. But nothing was so strange as the discovery of a pale old man, barricaded in the cylindrical oven and emaciated, but very much alive. He could not tell them his name, or who had imprisoned him, or for what crime. Indeed none of the soldiers recognised him, and it was only the king who saw the Arquali ambassador and father of the first Treaty Bride beneath the blood and matted hair and months of filth.
He almost shouted, Isiq! It's you! But something made Oshiram hold his tongue. He stood a little apart from the delirious man and waved his scribe and chamberlain to silence. He thought of all that had happened in his city that year. A murdered girl. A Mzithrini elder slain in his shrine. A curious silence from Arqual. And no word whatsoever from the west regarding the happiness of Falmurqat and Pacu Lapadolma. He felt the stirrings of fear for his little country, ever between the hammer and the anvil, ever dreaming of the day it would cease to bleed. Then he beckoned to the chamberlain and had him take Isiq to a guest room in the palace, a snug but out-of-the- way place not far from the king's private library.
'Send a doctor — No, send my doctor, and have him report to me the minute he leaves this man's bedside. And see that neither he nor the guards nor you yourself ever mention this fellow to a soul.'
22
20 Freala 941
129th day from Etherhorde
At dawn the Chathrand was no longer alone.
They had heard nothing, and seen no vessel approach for as long as there was moonlight to see by. Yet somehow before dawn a small, single-masted cutter had swept down upon them, around the curve of one of the Black Shoulders, or else out of some hidden mooring on Bramian itself.
She had drawn up under their lee and was closing still. The lookout bellowed; the watch-captain gave a blast on his pipe. Archers raced to the Chathrand's fighting tops.
The cutter was some forty feet long. There was grace to her lines, her tight-fitted timbers, and her silent crew worked the headsails with confidence, riding her gently on the swells. Little by little she edged closer to the Great Ship.
Mr Alyash came on deck and ordered the archers to stand down. 'Let us have the ladder, gentlemen. Helmsman, nothing sudden if you please.'
The accordion ladder snaked down the hull. On the cutter the men were rigidly alert: if they drifted too near they would founder in the Chathrand 's underswell: a fatal accident beyond any doubt. The helmsman of the smaller craft fought the waves, shouting orders to the men at the staysail. The gap narrowed: twelve feet, tenSuddenly a man was airborne: he had taken a flying leap from the smaller craft. He cleared the gap and caught the ladder in both hands, smacking against the Chathrand's hull. For an instant he vanished completely in a wave; then the Great Ship rolled and his body punched upward through the water. Alyash, watching his progress from above, heard him laugh aloud.
The cutter veered hastily away. The man on the ladder climbed with easy assurance. Water streamed from his loose grey hair and the tip of the scabbard lashed sidelong on his back. Some thirty feet below the topdeck he raised his eyes to Alyash and barked:
'You're the new bosun — Swellows' replacement?'
'Aye, sir,' came the startled reply.
'You'll reopen the midship portal. This is no way to board.'
'We sealed it against the Nelluroq, Mr-'
'Open it. And let Elkstem know he must bear north around Sandplume Isle — tight in, there's a cove.'
'The cove at Sandplume?' Alyash sputtered. 'But sir, the reef blocks the mouth of that cove, it's unapproachable.'
'There is no reef, you fool. We tore it out six months ago. Where's the captain? What mischief has that cursed mage been up to? And what the devil happened to the Shaggat's son?'
'He… that is-'
'Never mind, give me a hand. By the Night Gods, your face is ugly!'
Alyash glared, but bent over and clasped the outstretched hand — a scar-covered hand that closed on his own like a trap. The bosun grunted and heaved backwards, and the newcomer sprang over the rail and landed four-square on the deck. They stood there, eye to eye. Then Alyash wrenched his hand free.
'You're one to talk, you old spittin' viper.'
A moment's silence. Then Alyash guffawed, and Sandor Ott cackled, and the two men locked arms in what was almost an embrace.
'Bastard!' said Ott. 'We needed you in Simja! I said we wanted you aboard eventually. I didn't tell you to ship out as part of the crew!'
'You left it to my discretion.'
Ott shoved the bosun away. 'That was before the Isiq girl's trick in the shrine! You've no idea how close we came to ruin, that day. Pacu Lapadolma's credentials were mistranslated! What good is 'a general daughter,' damn your eyes, when we need the daughter of a general? We had to enlist our reserve man from the shrine to argue on her behalf, keep them all talking and considering, while we dug out old letters from her family.'
Alyash shrugged. 'What could I have done?'
'Examined her credentials before we passed them to that raving Babqri Father, of course. Not that he's raving any longer. That incubus tore him open like a pomegranate; I watched it all from the shadows.' He lowered his voice, leaned close to Alyash. 'Tell, me, has Fulbreech been exposed?'
'Not a bit of it,' murmured Alyash with a smile. 'He has even claimed a little territory in the heart of Thasha Isiq.'
'Has he, now? Fine work; but let him understand that I will tolerate no scandal. Young fathers make useless spies; if he gets her with child I will toss him from the quarterdeck myself. Here, have a look at this.'
Ott freed the top button of his coat, and from an inner pocket drew out a strange device of wood, bronze and iron. On one end was a handle, somewhat like that of a saw; on the other a dark metal tube.
'What is it?' said Alyash. 'It looks like a toy cannon, except for the handle.'
'That is no toy,' said Sandor Ott. 'It is a pistol. All the mechanics of a ship's gun are right there in miniature.'
Alyash's jaw gradually slid open. 'By the iron kiss of the Arch-Devil,' he said, turning the instrument gingerly in his hands.
'You heretics amaze me,' said Ott, his tone a blend of scorn and affection. 'You're obsessed with purity, yet you invoke only the corruptors — the Pit fiends, the devils you detest. Where do you hide your god?'
Alyash shook his head. 'We've been over this ground for years, Ott — like two old nags. We of the Old Faith do not speak of that which you call 'god.' We do not cage the infinite in the small mind of man; that vanity we leave to others. Tell me, what is this lever for?'
'That is the serpentine; it lowers a burning match onto the powder charge. The explosion tends to ruin the serpentine, and sometimes the pistol itself. In truth it is not yet a practical tool. An arrow is swifter to fire, and much more accurate; a vasctha is deadlier if it strikes. But there can be only so much power in bent wood and stretched sinew, while the potential latent in this-' He gazed rapturously at the weapon '-is infinite. You are looking at the invention of our age. In time it will bring an end to all wars, for the alternative — can you imagine it, Alyash? A world equipped with these, and using them? — would simply be too ruinous for everyone.'
Alyash shook his head grimly. 'No, I can't imagine such a world.'
