Agaroth. But you are in sight of the Last Domain, and it is long since fitting that you be released from the Border- Kingdom and allowed to go your way. You, and the one who dwells there at your side, the one I have called Mother hitherto. All I ask before I release you is the truth. You won the three sisters at cards: I know this. You kept them as servants and concubines, and you did not care how many brats you sired on them. Such trifling issues were easily resolved, no doubt, once the Flikkermen developed a market for infants, and the slave-school on Nurth realized what returns were possible on an investment of eight or nine years. How many of my brothers and sisters (half brothers, half sisters) did you scatter to the winds? Are any of them known to you by name? Those are the first questions I should like addressed. But there is another, more vital by far: which sister gave birth to me? Is it the one who followed you to the Border-Kingdom? Or the one who simply vanished from our household, one evening of my fourteenth year? Or the third sister, Oggosk herself? All my life I have taken your side against her: never would I recognize her as family, and only in these letters have I named her Aunt. But is she my mother’s sister, or my mother? You could always strike a bargain, sir, so let us bargain away this inefficiency: tell me the truth about myself, and I will hold you and your companion in Agaroth no longer. As ever, I shall bargain in good faith. You have always demanded a full accounting of my captaincy, and this I am willing to provide. I am back aboard the Chathrand now, and my crew is for the most part reassembled-only some twenty fools broke out of the Masalym Tournament Grounds, and are hiding yet in the vast warren of the Lower City. They may end up dwelling permanently among these black-skinned, coin-eyed creatures, for we are preparing for an emergency launch, and nothing whatsoever may delay it. Not even prudence: I have given my most reluctant consent to a launch at dusk tomorrow, before the wares we are taking aboard can be secured or balanced, knowing full well (you need not remind me, sir) of the great peril involved. Any sizable swell may roll us, sink us; but such odds are better than the certainty of seizure if we remain here an hour too long. In any case we shall have thirty miles in the gulf to prepare for the open sea. Except for those few deserters, the men all but stampeded back to the Chathrand when the gate was opened at the Tournament Grounds. Days of rest and feasting had given way to fear about the dlomu’s intentions. Now they are relieved (and amazed) to have been restored to their ship, even though we sail once more into danger. They have not yet grasped the nature of the Red Storm that lies between us and home, and though rumors circulate, they are considered too outlandish to be true. I have forbidden the officers, and Pathkendle’s gang, to speak of the Red Storm to anyone. The men feel lost enough as it is, without the terror of becoming lost in time. For the moment their good spirits hold, and they are laboring with a will. So, for that matter, are the dlomu, whose orders now are clearly to see us gone with all possible haste. But they will no longer step aboard the ship, or even pass supplies directly into our hands. What is not loaded by cargo crane they carry to the center of the gangway. We must wait for them to withdraw onto the quay before retrieving it ourselves. All of this because one of them went mad and began to sing upon the quarterdeck. When we set sail at nightfall tomorrow, there are yet a few others who will not be among us. You may think it good fortune, and for most of this voyage I have wished for nothing more ardently. Now I think their absence may prove disaster. Or perhaps I misstate the case: perhaps it is my own absence from their number that haunts me now as a looming, possibly fatal, mistake. I know of course what you will say, Father, but do restrain yourself. I will welcome no advice at this juncture; the shades of Chathrand’s old skippers inflict quite enough as it is.
Thasha raised her eyes from the scribbled vellum. Crowded around her, Pazel, Neeps and Marila continued to read. Oggosk was leaning on her stick by the palace window in the bright evening sun, watching them. She had appeared suddenly in the palace, and been escorted to their waiting chambers by a pair of dlomic chamber maids. “What do you want us to do with this?” Thasha asked.
The old woman walked stiffly to them and snatched the page back. “I want you to bear it in mind,” she said. “Nilus faces a terrible decision-probably the greatest in his life. And how you speak to him next may make all the difference.”
“What’s this about ‘a few others not among us’?” asked Pazel. “Who’s he talking about?”
“You’re about to find out,” said Oggosk, glancing at the door.
“Where’s the rest of the letter?” asked Marila.
“Right here,” said the witch, pulling two more sheets from inside her cloak. Placing the three sheets together, she ripped them in quarters. Then, walking to the hearth-it was chilly in the palace, despite the warmth outside-she tossed the pieces onto the bed of glowing coals.
“Again!” cried Neeps. “I’ve never understood why you do that. Such a blary waste of time.”
Oggosk looked at him over her shoulder, contemptuous. “Scrawny little ape. When did you ever understand a thing?” She crouched before the fire and blew. The vellum smoldered, then burst suddenly into flames. Oggosk stood with a groan and turned to face the youths.
“The letters I burn, he watches forming in a fireplace, beneath the dying coals. When the last ember goes out he brushes off the ash and there they are, waiting to be read. I speak of Theimat, of course, the captain’s father. He is a prisoner in Agaroth, on the doorstep of death, a shade without the rest that every shade must long for. Until Nilus chooses to let him go.”
“And Rose keeps him there,” said Pazel, “because he wants to know which of you is his real mother?”
“You can see that much plainly,” snapped the witch. “Now listen to me: you will keep the family matters to yourselves, am I clear? Nilus will go mad if he learns I’ve made you privy to the worst secret of his childhood.”
“Why did you?” asked Thasha.
Oggosk hesitated, and the wrinkles tightened around her milky-blue eyes. “Perhaps for no good reason,” she said. “In any case we will know in a matter of hours.”
The door of the chamber banged open. It was Prince Olik’s footman. “His Highness asks his honored guests to join him on the Dais of Masalym.”
“He’s back!” cried Pazel. “Is Hercol with him? Is there any sign of Arunis?”
The man did not answer at first; like most of the dlomu he seemed caught between wonder and fear when in their presence. “I am to take you quickly,” he said at last.
They followed him, Thasha’s dogs padding at her side; Oggosk struggling irritably, leaning on both her stick and Pazel’s arm. Out of the splendid drawing room they walked, through a portrait gallery where they had tried to glean clues about Bali Adro history (and where Druffle now stood transfixed before a dlomic nude), across the dining chamber where Rain and Uskins sat earnestly masticating mul. How could they possibly be hungry, Thasha wondered, when two hours ago they had all been treated to such a staggering meal?
What they had not been treated to was information. They had climbed a broad stair from beneath the pillar to these chambers, where Alyash, Dastu and Sandor Ott were waiting already, and twenty servants (and twice as many guards) attended them, in that same abashed and fearful style. Olik and Bolutu had returned at once to the Lower City, and the frantic search. Ibjen had stayed to dote on them-carrying tea-trays, measuring their feet for new shoes when the tailor’s hands shook too much for the task. It was good luck, Thasha realized, that they had landed first in a village too small and isolated to trade in the fanciful, terrifying gossip that had swept Masalym. Ibjen had had time to realize they were simply people, before anyone declared them something else.
From the dining chamber they walked down a short corridor, then climbed a steep and narrow staircase. Then another, and another. Only after the fifth staircase did the footman speak again, announcing, “The Dais of Masalym,” and throwing open a door.
Sunlight and wind: the door let onto a small, roofless space with another staircase, very short, leading up to what Thasha saw instantly must be the roof of the entire palace, the cut-off apex of the pyramid.
“There you are! Come, hurry!” came the prince’s voice, faintly.
Up they climbed, into the last hour of daylight. The roof was flat, featureless, immense, a great courtyard thrust up into the sky, with no railing, no shelter of any kind. Here at the center they could see nothing of the city, only the snowy peaks in the south and west, and on the other side the spire of Narybir Tower, hazy across the gulf. Olik and Hercol stood close to this edge-and beside them, tiny in that enormous space, were two figures that made Thasha’s heart leap with joy.
“Ensyl! Felthrup!”
The dogs bounded forward, skidding to a halt before their beloved rat. Thasha saw that Hercol was holding Ildraquin naked in his hand. “You found it!” she cried.
“It was never lost,” said Ensyl, “though in removing it from Vadu’s reach I made it appear so, alas. Dear friends! I wondered if I should ever see you again.”
“Felthrup, you’re a hero,” said Thasha, dropping to her knees beside him.
The black rat scurried into her arms, shivering with pleasure. “I am nothing of the kind,” he said. “What sort
