your teeth! She’s a sfvantskor!”
For an amazed moment the sailors even forgot their thirst. Sfvantskors! It’s true! Look at them tattooed necks! They’re the enemy, by Rin!
“Muckin’ Sizzies!” bellowed someone. “Killers! Crazies!”
“Animals, is what they are!” hissed another. “It’s one of them what hacked my old man’s arm off in the war!”
“We shouldn’t have to share our water-”
“We should gut ’em, here and now-”
“You will place them in the brig!” cried Taliktrum suddenly. “You above there, come down, unless you would fight the whole ship’s company. Girl, I will appoint one of my own lieutenants to watch over you-and besides, that part of the ship is off-limits to humans, unless escorted by us. Have no fear! We ixchel determine the course of events on the Chathrand.”
“The boy requires a doctor,” said Cayer Vispek, pointing at Jalantri.
Taliktrum studied the moaning figure. “Let him go to the forecastle house. Dr. Chadfallow is already there. Now yield, sfvantskor girl. We are in dangerous waters, and this delay imperils us all.”
Neda tightened her grip on Thasha’s neck. She looked quite capable of murder. Through her teeth, and still in Arquali, she spoke: “No… Turach… touching me… again.”
“Right,” said Haddismal, waving off his men with a sigh. “I’d say you’ve made that blary clear.”
But the other Turachs, and especially the friends of the wounded men, studied Neda with hatred, and their eyes seemed to mark her.
1. It should now be abundantly clear that all such cited dates are open to question. -EDITOR.
2. Sfvantskors may never conceal or fully cover these marks, which declare not only their tribe but their first master’s name, royal affiliation (pentarchrin) and stage of enlightenment. Facing execution, a sfvantskor will always ask to be stabbed or drowned rather than beheaded or hanged, so that his neck will remain intact, and his spirit pass with dignity through the regions of death. -EDITOR.
The Debate in the Manger
At first glance we saw animals in clothes. We recoiled; it was not proper to look at such things; it was not right to acknowledge their existence. But we could not help ourselves. Looking again we saw avenging demons, straight out of our past. We saw the bottomless fury of demons, the violence, the hatred even for themselves, when they slew one another on the deck of that immense ship, howling in an archaic language that was almost our own. That is when we clung to one another in greatest fear. We knew catastrophe was close; it had befallen nearly everyone else already. And heaven knows these human beings had much to avenge. -Masalym Before the Storm: Recollections,
Uluja Thantral
22 Ilbrin 941
“You don’t have to do this,” said Pazel.
“Stop saying that,” said Thasha. “I told you Neda didn’t hurt me. You’re the one covered with bruises.”
Thasha passed under a glass plank, and the afternoon sun touched her hair-brushed and tied but still brittle; she had not yet rinsed out the salt. They were in a passage on the main deck, heading for the Silver Stair. Jorl and Suzyt, Thasha’s enormous blue mastiffs, walked before her like a pair of guardian lions, too proud to tug at their leads. Overhead, boots clomped and clattered; men were laughing, almost giddy. Literally drunk on water. Men had wept at the cool mineral taste. The dogs had lapped two quarts apiece, and looked up hopefully for more.
“It’s not bruises I’m worried about,” said Pazel.
Thasha flicked Pazel a glance. “What is it, then?” she said.
Pazel wished she would slow down. “Lady Oggosk, for starters,” he said.
Thasha looked baffled. They were about to face some of their worst enemies, but Oggosk would not be among them. The witch remained imprisoned in the forecastle house, along with the captain she so fiercely adored.
“They’re plotting something,” said Pazel. “Oggosk, and Rose, and maybe Ott for that matter. I went to see Neeps the minute the guards took Neda away. All three of them were at the window, talking to Alyash.”
“Well, of course they were,” said Thasha. “He’s the bosun, you dolt. He’s Rose’s blary right-hand man, now that Uskins is falling apart.”
At the ladderway a fungal stench met their nostrils. They started down into the warm gloom of the lower decks, the big dogs struggling for balance on the stairs. Men and tarboys shrank from the dogs, tipped their hats to Thasha, eyed Pazel with a confused mix of fascination and fear. Some still blamed him for the ship’s evil luck; others had heard that he was the only reason the Chathrand was still afloat.
Pazel leaned closer to Thasha. “I heard Oggosk say, ‘The girl,’ ” he murmured.
“For Rin’s sake,” cried Thasha, “is that all it takes to rattle you? Oggosk was probably talking about poor Marila. She’s the one locked in with them all.”
Beneath the level of the gun decks they had the stairs to themselves. “Come off it,” said Pazel. “You know that hag is obsessed with you. And this time she sounded mean. Kind of desperate, like.”
“I’d be desperate too, if I were stuck in that compartment with Sandor Ott.”
Aware that his own desperation was mounting, Pazel thrust his arm across her path.
“It’s not just Oggosk, damn it,” he sputtered. “It’s that we’re going… there. Where it happened to you. Where the rats went mad, and the Stone-where you… you-”
“Where I touched it,” she said, touching him.
Pazel flinched; but her fingers on his cheek were just her fingers; no lightning jumped from them but the kind he expected, the thrill and promise that tore him from sleep with thoughts of her. He closed his eyes. Stop shaking, Pazel, you’re not doing anything wrong. There had been months when her touch, her very nearness, had brought scalding pain, but that spell (laid on him by a murth-girl thousands of miles to the north) was broken or dormant. There had been threats from Lady Oggosk, who harbored some unfathomable plan for Thasha, a plan that required her to be unloved. But Oggosk had nothing to threaten them with anymore. Pazel took her hand, slid his fingers from her palm to her wrist. The Blessing-Band was still there.
“I thought you’d lost this in the gulf,” he said.
Thasha lowered her hand from his cheek to the blue silk ribbon, turned it until they could read the words embroidered in gold thread: Ye depart for a world unknown, and love alone shall keep thee
“I left it behind in the stateroom,” she said, tracing the words with her fingers. “It’s not something I’m willing to lose.”
The silk band was to have played a role in Thasha’s wedding back in Simja. Three nights ago, Pazel had at last performed the tiny part of the ceremony allotted to him, and tied it around her wrist. The meaning of the act, of course, had utterly changed, but those ambiguous words troubled him yet. Wasn’t she still departing? Not into life with a Mzithrini husband, but into some region of the mind where he could not follow?
Nonsense. Nerves. Thasha was touched by magic, somehow-but not touched in the head. Pazel himself had been living for years under a potent charm and had managed to remain who he was. He put his arm around her, drew her closer, felt her breath tickling his chin.
“You’re trembling,” she whispered. “Why are you afraid?”
Why was he afraid? He had torn a cursed necklace away from her throat, dragged her up flaming stairwells; he had seen her naked and bleeding on a beach. He could kiss her here and now (so far she had planted the kisses, though not always on him) and no disaster would follow.
Presumably.
It was never supposed to happen. You believe me, don’t you?
Rin’s teeth, he was sweating. And Thasha, impatient, was slipping under his arm and down the staircase, slipping away.
