Mr. Uskins was here as well-tall, fair Uskins, the disgraced first mate. The man had loathed Pazel and Neeps from the start-they belonged to inferior races, but failed to cringe before their betters-and the tarboys returned the sentiment. But lately Pazel had begun to feel sorry for Uskins. The man looked like a shipwreck. Once fastidious in the extreme, he had neglected both his beard and his uniform. His blond hair dangled greasy and uncombed. When he looked at Pazel his eyes lit with antipathy, but it was a vague, distracted sort of hate.
The last two figures were even more unexpected. One was Claudius Rain-addled Dr. Rain, the worst quack Pazel had ever encountered. Rain had barely stirred from his cabin since the legendary Dr. Chadfallow replaced him as ship’s surgeon. But here he was, following the flies with his gaze, muttering to himself. And there beside him, damn it all, stood the surgeon’s mate, Greysan Fulbreech.
The handsome Simjan youth beamed at Thasha, who returned a brief, uneasy smile. Pazel wanted to smash something. He was visited by the absurd idea that Fulbreech, five or six years older and unbearably decent to everyone, was the true reason Thasha had insisted on attending the meeting. Fulbreech had appeared suddenly one day in the wedding crowd on Simja, bearing a mysterious message for Hercol. Pazel had mistrusted him from that first moment, though he had to admit he had no definite cause. Not for mistrust, anyway; jealousy was another matter. He knew quite well that Thasha had fancied the surgeon’s mate-had kissed him once or twice, even, when Oggosk’s threats made Pazel treat her with disdain. Of course, that was over now Fulbreech gave him a frank, friendly smile. “Hello, Pathkendle.”
Pazel nodded, failing to bring an answering smile to his lips. Do I hate him just because Thasha doesn’t? What’s the matter with me?
Behind them, Alyash closed the chamber door.
Taliktrum cleared his throat. “We’re alive,” he said. “That is something. But no one should suppose that we have earned the right to breathe easy. Only giants think in terms of merits and rewards; our people think of survival. That is what we are here to determine: how to survive together, until we can go our separate ways.”
Fiffengurt laughed grimly. “Did you see that Gods-forsaken serpent? Did you hear those drums? We’re babes in the woods, Mr. Taliktrum. How in Pitfire do you determine the best way to survive in a world you know nothing about?”
“You must address him as ‘commander’ or ‘lord,’ ” hissed Myett.
“You are not equipped to understand,” said Taliktrum, “but we are. The ixchel have not grown fat in their time of exile; they have not grown soft and selfish. Every house in Etherhorde, every dog-prowled, cat-infested alley, was to us a place of menace and persecution. Do you see how fortunate you are that we seized your drifting helm? Trust me, you are adrift no longer. The Chathrand shall move through this great, strange South as the ixchel move through a city: in the shadows, in darting runs and swift concealments, inch by hard-won inch.”
His words tumbled out like an unpracticed speech, or a man trying to convince himself of his own consequence. When he finished, he appeared at a loss. Without releasing his leg, Myett looked up and caught his eye, and then subtly directed his attention to Old Gangrune.
“I have asked our purser,” said Taliktrum at once, “to remind us of the assets that remain aboard this ship. That is the purser’s duty, among other things. Are you prepared, Mr. Gangrune?”
The old, bent fellow nodded sourly. He was fussing with an extremely tattered and dog-eared accounting book.
“Well, proceed,” said Taliktrum.
Gangrune took a pair of horn-rimmed glasses from his vest pocket, considered the filthy lenses, folded them anew. He opened the logbook and considered it for nearly a minute with the deepest disappointment. At last Haddismal snatched the book, flipped it right-side up, and placed it again in Gangrune’s hands. The old man glared at the sergeant as though he had been tricked. Then he cleared his throat.
“It is my joy,” he shouted, “in this, my thirty-seventh year as purser aboard the Imperial Mercantile Ship Chathrand, registration four-o-two-seven-nine Etherhorde, to present you with another exact and impeccable accounting. To begin with the human assets, gentlemen: our splendid vessel currently boasts three hundred and ninety-one ordinary seamen, one hundred and forty able seamen, twenty-two midshipmen, sixteen lieutenants and sub-lieutenants, two gun captains, six deck officers in full command of their mental faculties, another deck officer, a glorious and decorated captain, a famous and educated sailmaster, a doctor and another who petitions our belief that he is such, a surgeon’s mate, two illustrious passengers entitled to partial refunds due to our tardiness in returning to Etherhorde, nine specialists, seven mates, a veterinarian with webbed fingers, a master cook, a tailor, thirty-four tarboys of no distinction or morals, ninety-one Turach marines with full mobility and one who suffers headaches and is prone to falling forward, a regimental clerk, a foul witch, an experienced whaling-ship commander and his nineteen surviving crew members, including four Quezan warriors indecently fond of nakedness, thirty-three steerage passengers, among them twelve women, four boys, three girls and an infant with a cleft lip, eight-”
“Silence!” screamed Taliktrum. “Mr. Gangrune, what are we to do with such a rubbish heap of detail? I asked you for a summary statement.”
Gangrune countered that he was presenting a summary, that a full company report would have required him to be “rather more specific.” He was about to resume his reading, but Taliktrum cut him off.
“That will do, Purser, thank you ever so much. Post your summary in the wardroom as I requested. Now then-” The young lord’s eyes swept the room, and at last settled on Thasha again. “Step forward, girl.”
Thasha hesitated, then moved toward the ixchel and the Shaggat Ness. She regarded Taliktrum coldly.
“We have decided to keep this plague of idiocy a secret from the crew of the Chathrand. Have you or your friends spoken of it to anyone?”
“Of course not,” said Thasha.
Nothing about the time-skip, Pazel thought. Hercol’s right. It’s safer this way.
“When we fought the rats in this chamber,” Taliktrum went on, “I saw a thing I cannot explain. Pathkendle saw it too, and my father, and a handful of my guards. I am not sure whether you saved our lives or inspired the rats to start the bonfire that nearly killed us all. Will you tell us what happened?”
A brief pause, then Thasha shook her head.
“Perhaps you distrust certain persons here?” suggested Taliktrum. “Will you speak to me privately, to help me better command this vessel?”
Grunts and murmurs escaped the humans. Command, he says. One of the Turachs turned aside to spit.
“No,” said Thasha, “I won’t.”
“Do not toy with us,” said Taliktrum, his voice rising. “By now you of all people must know that we of Ixphir House do not bluff. We have no desire to see any more of your people killed-”
“What about your own?” muttered Fiffengurt.
“-but if you refuse to face the truth of your situation, you will leave us no choice. Look at me when I address you, girl.”
“Her name is Thasha Isiq,” said Hercol.
Every head in the chamber turned. Taliktrum started; Myett’s hand went to her bow. Hercol had spoken quietly, but Pazel had rarely heard such depths of hatred in a voice.
Hercol and Diadrelu had been lovers. Pazel did not know what that meant, between a human and an eight- inch-tall ixchel queen. A few months ago he would not have believed it possible: it was the stuff of tarboy jokes. But he had seen Hercol when they found her, hours too late but still beautiful, naked save for her bandaged neck, surrounded by those of her clan who had loved her to the end. Hercol’s agony had been like a second death, and Pazel had felt ashamed of his doubt.
That courage, he thought, and that proud, quiet loneliness. She was perfect for him.
A sudden rustling from the hay bales. Pazel raised his eyes: eighty or ninety ixchel had materialized there in an eyeblink, ranged like a miniature battalion, armed and silent. Every one of them was focused on Hercol.
Alyash gestured irritably. “We’re all on the same blasted ship, Stanapeth. We’ve the right to know what her game is.”
The right to know! Pazel was speechless at the bosun’s gall. But he wouldn’t be speechless, not this time, he “Awful, isn’t it,” said Fulbreech, his voice dripping sarcasm, “when people keep secrets?”
Thasha smiled at Fulbreech again.
“You shut your Gods-damned mouth, boy,” said Alyash. “You’ve no business here anyway.”
“We were summoned, we were dragged,” Dr. Rain protested.
Thasha just shook her head. “I won’t explain because I can’t. I simply don’t know what happened that day. I
