child went with him. As he stepped into the chamber Pazel recalled the creaking bridges of his dreams. He felt as if he were upon one again. They told us she died in Ormael. They told us she leaped from a tower into the sea. We know nothing, we're toys in their hands.
They bound his wrists with metal cuffs and sat him in a corner, too far from the hearth to be warmed in that chilly underground. Unlike the chamber below this was not a natural cave; the room, and several others adjoining, were carved from the living rock. They gave him water and ship's biscuit, later a handful of berries that resembled coffee beans and tasted like sweet smoked grubs.
Syrarys came to look at him, with Ott beside her. Hatred shone in her eyes.
'Thasha's little friend,' she said. 'Do you know what her father did to me, bastard? Something much worse than rape or beatings. He bought me, like a dog. He groomed and bathed me and took me out in society on a leash, so that the Etherhorde nobles could admire my tricks.'
'That's not what I heard,' said Pazel. 'I heard Isiq never asked for a slave at all. That the Emperor sent you to him, and the old man didn't think he could refuse.' He looked at Ott. 'I wonder who gave His Supremacy that idea.'
Syrarys slapped him, hard. Pazel raised his shackled hands to his face. 'I believe the part about doing tricks, though,' he said.
She would have struck him again if Ott hadn't drawn her away. Pazel found himself wondering what Thasha would do if Syrarys returned to the Chathrand.
The drug-delirium came and went. Several hours in that windowless chamber simply vanished. When his memory returned it moved in leaps, like a stone skipping on a lake. Men around a table. Captain Rose brooding over a chart. Elkstem waving his hands, shouting, I can't blary say, Captain! You don't get that close to the Vortex and live to tell! Drellarek sharpening a hatchet. The Shaggat's son chained to the wall, asleep.
At another moment he woke with Syrarys' voice in his ears, and flinched, expecting pain. But she was nowhere near him. He raised his head and saw her with Ott on the far side of the chamber. They were kissing, and arguing between the kisses. Pazel's strange hearing brought it all to his ears.
Want to go with you.
No, dearest. The job in Simja only you can accomplish.
You said Isiq would be the last one!
I said I hoped, Syrarys. But there was madness when the girl collapsed.
You bastard. I'll make you pay. I'll sleep with your spies. The pretty ones, the youngest.
Don't try it. They fear me even more than they desire you.
Care to bet?
Pazel's head swam. He fought to stay awake, to hear more of their argument, but the darkness closed over him again.
Later they stood him up and walked him to the table. It was by now covered with books, scrolls, loose vellum sheets. Nearly everything was old; some of the books appeared positively ancient. Look, they said, and spread before him something that might have been a scrap of sailcloth with old grey stains. Look there. What is that?
'Your finger?' he said.
Rose seized his ear and twisted savagely, as if annoyed to find it so tightly fastened to his head.
'There's writing, Pathkendle. Lean closer.'
Tears of pain in his eyes, Pazel leaned over the canvas. The faces around the table watched him breathless. Rose was pointing at a symbol in pale blue ink. Was it a character, a word? The only thing Pazel was sure of was that he'd never seen its like before.
His vision blurred; he shut his eyes, and when he opened them again he read the word as easily as though it were his own name:
' 'Port of Stath Balfyr.' '
The men exclaimed: some relieved, others in doubt. 'I told you,' said Syrarys, her voice softly ardent. 'I told you it came from a chart.'
'What's that language, then, cub?' asked Drellarek, pointing at the canvas.
Pazel hesitated. 'N-Nemmocian,' he said at last. It was the truth, but he only discovered it by speaking the word aloud.
'Where is the tongue spoken, lad?' asked Sandor Ott.
'How in the Pits should I know?'
'The boy's Gift does not extend so far,' said Dr Chadfallow. 'He learns nothing of the culture of the languages he… acquires. Nothing but what one may deduce from the words themselves.'
'Then we're no better off than before!' huffed Alyash. 'Why, we could spend the rest of our lives looking for a place called Stath Balfyr, where they may or may not speak something called Nemmocian. And begging your pardon, Lady Syrarys, but we can't be certain this was torn from a chart.'
'I don't understand,' said Pazel.
The men looked at him uncertainly. It was Sandor Ott, of all people, who broke the silence.
'The world beyond the Ruling Sea,' he said, 'is not entirely forgotten. What you see before you is all that the libraries, archives and private collections of the known world have yielded to my investigators, after a decade of searching.'
He lifted an ancient book, cracked it open, blew. The page flaked and crumbled.
'Not much to show for our labours, is it?' said Ott. 'But there were a few helpful discoveries: that first canvas gives us some idea of the shape of the coastline we may reach. Another document seems to be a list of surnames — royal families, in all probability — and the lands they govern. But the jewel in this musty hoard is a page from a diary or log-book. I will not show it here, for it is so delicate that each time we remove it from its case a portion crumbles to dust. We have copied it out, however — word by word, number by number.'
Pazel's head was swimming; he was finding Ott's words very difficult to follow. 'What… does it tell you?' he managed to ask.
'Headings,' said the spymaster. 'Course headings, and distances, from Stath Balfyr to lands on this side of the Ruling Sea. Lands we know, cities that yet exist, even though the names have changed. Eldanphul, the old name of Uturphe. Marseyl, that the Noonfirth Kings renamed for their founder, Lord Pol. And one island whose name has not changed: Gurishal. Do you see, Pathkendle? If we can but find this Stath Balfyr, we will know the exact course to the Shaggat's kingdom, and the multitude that awaits him.'
'If we find it,' said Alyash, shaking his head.
'Yes,' said Ott, 'if. Unfortunately the collector of ancient manuscripts who owned this particular scrap of writing… died, trying to stop my men from seizing it. And his records contain no mention of the page.'
Syrarys turned impatiently from the table. 'You needn't explain things to the tarboy,' she said.
Ott looked Pazel up and down. 'I am following my instincts with this one,' he said. 'The ignorant make poor servants. For as long as he is with us, he must grasp the fundamentals. Of course, he will not be with us for ever.'
'What do you mean by that?' demanded Chadfallow, leaning forwards.
The spymaster ignored him. 'Pathkendle,' he said softly, 'do the words Stath Balfyr mean something in themselves?'
'No,' said Pazel.
It came out too quickly, a blurted denial. Sergeant Drellarek sat back with a laugh.
Ott turned to look at Chadfallow. 'There's an answer for you, Doctor. Your tarboy has just lied, very clumsily. My boys in the School of Imperial Security tell better falsehoods after thirty minutes of training. How long will Pathkendle be with us? A short time indeed, if he fails to answer my questions. But long enough to hear one or more of his friends beg for death: a death Ramachni's spell, alas, will make it inconvenient to provide.'
Pazel swallowed. He was only too aware how easily Ott could carry out his threats. Thasha, Neeps and Marila would be forced to leave the protection of the stateroom in short order if Rose let the spymaster cut off their food.
'Look at him, he's stalling,' said Syrarys.
Fascination glimmered in Ott's eyes. 'No, he is considering his choices. He's a thoughtful lad.'
Diadrelu. Pazel closed his eyes. Forgive me.
'Answer the question, Pathkendle,' said Rose.
