'When that day comes, the world will have no more need of us,' said Ott, sliding the pistol back into his coat. 'Enough, where's the captain? We must bear north immediately.'
Alyash led the spymaster forward, past rows of gaping sailors. When he caught their whispers ('Nagan, it's Commander Nagan!') Ott chuckled softly. They knew him — or rather, they knew the captain of Eberzam Isiq's honour guard. That costume, that papier-mache man, one of the myriad counterfeit selves he had lived within.
Sandor Ott had lately come up with an image for his life. A solitary man on a desert road, the sun at perpetual noon, the road vanishing straight as an arrow behind him, and littered with bodies to the edge of sight. Usually he thought of these bodies as his aliases, the soldiers and merchants and monks he had not just impersonated but become, so completely that he suffered confusion when his fellow spies addressed him by his real name. Sandor Ott: what was that, anyway, but an earlier invention? Not a talisman, not a family name, for he had known no family but the Arquali Children's Militia, outlawed now, and slowly being rubbed out of the Empire's official histories. He did not know who in the militia had named him. He did not even know the name of his first language, or where in the Empire it was spoken, or quite when Arquali had replaced it for ever as the language of his thought.
At other times the bodies on the road were simply those who had stood in his way.
He and Alyash walked the length of the topdeck. Ott's eyes darted everywhere, studying the ship he had departed six weeks ago in Ormael. He asked questions in a sharp military style: 'How many tons of grain have you left? When did the men last eat vegetables? Has anyone been murdered? How in the Nine Pits did you damage your shrouds?'
At the mizzen they went below, and continued forward along the upper gun deck. Halfway down the portside battery, Alyash paused and looked the spymaster in the face.
'They sent me, Ott. They ordered me to seek a position.'
'Aboard an Arquali ship?'
The bosun shook his head. 'Aboard Chathrand. Specifically.'
Sandor Ott held very still. His eyes slid away from Alyash, darting again — but this time they were studying abstractions, facts arrayed before him, words and signs and evidence.
'They suspect us,' he said at last.
'Yes,' said Alyash.
'They cannot know of what. But they do suspect us. That's interesting.'
The bosun turned and spat. 'I suppose that's one word for it. Another would be 'disastrous.' '
Still Ott did not move. He might have been blind to the ship about him.
'The Babqri Father,' he said. 'Your orders came from him, didn't they?'
Alyash nodded. 'We answered to him, you realise: the Zithmoloch put their spies under his command for the duration of the wedding. And do you know who that girl was — the one the demon killed alongside the old priest?'
'A sfvantskor trainee — fully trained, almost, by the way she fought.'
'Ott, she was also the daughter of the Mzithrini admiral, Kuminzat.'
Sandor Ott's eyes refocused on the bosun, and a fascinated smile took possession of his face. Alyash squirmed at the sight of it. He had known Ott for decades, and that smile came to him only when the spymaster sensed an assault or an ambush, violence approaching like a predator from the woods. No, not like a predator. Not in your case, Ott. More like a loved one, his cherished intimate, whose absence he could bear only so long.
By midday they had rounded the little isle of Sandplume. On the north shore, two headlands like swollen knuckles bulged northwards, forming a dark, cliff-mantled cove. The reef, as Ott had promised, had been reduced to scattered rubble on the sea-bed, and the Chathrand glided easily into the sheltered waters. Inside, she was hidden from any possibility of view from south, east or west; and unless a ship was running between the isles, the next Black Shoulder to the north would hide them from that direction as well. The spymaster's cutter had arrived before them; her anchor was already down.
Captain Rose had not emerged that morning. He had Uskins greet Sandor Ott, to both men's displeasure. But once the Great Ship lay at ease beside the cutter he sat at his desk, uncapped a speaking-tube that rose like a beheaded snake from the corner, and began to issue commands.
Thirty minutes later Ott and Alyash arrived at his door, and the steward waved them in. Rose's cabin was bright, the air close and steamy: hot midday sun poured through the skylight and glittered on the silver service. Rose stood at the head of the table, carving a slab of salt-cured ham on a platter garnished with potatoes and turnips and slices of withered orange. There was also a cold crab stew in a gyroscopic cauldron, its feet screwed into the tabletop, the bowl itself on ball-bearings that kept it level against the rolling of the ship. Lady Oggosk and Drellarek were seated. Uskins was at the sideboard, pouring snifters of brandy.
Drellarek rose and gave Ott a precise military bow.
'Sergeant,' said Ott amiably.
'A great pleasure to have you back, sir,' said Drellarek.
Something hissed. Captain Rose gave a violent start. Ten feet away on his desktop, Sniraga stood with bristled fur, baring her fangs at the spymaster.
Ott's eyes travelled to the far end of the cabin. There, looking out through the gallery windows, stood Dr Chadfallow. He was drawn and dour, and clearly did not mean to offer any greetings of his own.
'He will not kill you, Doctor,' said Rose, whose eyes had not left the ham. 'You may join us at table.'
'I am not hungry,' said Chadfallow.
'Well I certainly am,' said Ott. 'Your hospitality arrives at a crawl, Captain.'
'This is not a social occasion,' said Rose.
'Indeed not,' said the spymaster. 'Come, Doctor, the captain speaks the truth. We all know of how you've broken faith with His Supremacy, and while it might be enough to condemn you in a court of law — well, we are a long way from the nearest courtroom, aren't we? Nor shall I seek vengeance for what passed between us in Ormael, any more than I shall against the duchess here. You were not to know why Syrarys and I were poisoning your old friend Isiq. A case could even be made that you acted out of loyalty to the crown.'
Chadfallow turned from the window and looked across the wide cabin at Ott.
'A false case,' he said.
Ott shrugged. 'This ship requires a doctor, and no one disputes that you are the finest. Indeed, we'll have need of your special skills within the hour. Where is our guest of honour, Sergeant?'
'The Shaggat's son?' said Drellarek. 'He is not fit company, Master Ott. Since his brother died, Erthalon Ness raves like never before. I thought you would prefer to deal with him later.'
'Quite right,' said Ott, 'but that is not who I meant.'
'The other will be delivered as soon as we lay hands on him,' said Drellarek. 'My men face a new complication in that regard.'
'So Alyash tells me,' said Ott. 'A magical wall about the stateroom, astonishing! Your arts are no match for it, then, Lady Oggosk?'
Lady Oggosk was sucking an orange wedge. 'My arts,' she said wetly, 'are at the service of the captain, not the Imperial butcher-boy.'
Ott smiled, but no one imagined he was pleased.
Rose was looking sharply at Alyash. 'Why have you brought him to this meeting, Ott?'
'I'm glad you ask,' said the spymaster, taking Alyash by the arm. 'Gentlemen, Lady Oggosk. You've met your new bosun, but I dare say you were not properly introduced. As well as being a first-class sailor, he happens to be an agent of my western rivals in the field of clandestine security.'
Silence. Drellarek studied the bosun inscrutably. Uskins, bewildered, looked from face to face. At last Ott's meaning dawned on him.
'A spy? A spy for the Black Rags?'
'You watch your mouth,' growled Alyash. 'I'm a son of the Holy Mzithrin, no matter what I'd like to see happen to her five criminal kings.' He surveyed the room. 'You Arqualis mean to conquer and cannibalise the Pentarchy. I know that; I'm not a blary fool. I help you because I realised long ago that domination by Arqual, however great an evil, was the only way to save my homeland from gory suicide. The Shaggat Ness was the worst of the Mzithrin's open sores, but he would not have been the last. I am not a traitor. I am simply a man who faces the truth.'
