“You don’t understand,” he said. “My sister’s special. Wise. They both are, as a matter of fact.”
It was worse than I feared. “Pathkendle,” I implored. “My dear, sarcastic, sharp-tongued tarboy. Religion’s a fine thing, a truly noble thing-except for the believing part. Trust me, please. It’s worse than what a girl can do to you.”
“Nothing is.”
I groaned aloud. “Pitfire, that’s true, of course. But so is what I’m telling you. Listen to me, for the love of Rin-”
He met my eyes at that. “For the love of who, Mr. Fiffengurt?”
I stood up straight. “That’s a different matter, the Rinfaith. It’s part of society. And it ain’t so extreme, like. You know what I’m saying. Barbaric.”
He frowned a little at that. “I just wanted to talk to my sister,” he said, “and that Vispek bloke won’t let her talk except about grim and serious things.” Then he smiled at me, with his old sly look. “Maybe he hoped she’d win me over to the Old Faith. Not a chance. Neda’s never been able to talk me into anything.” He laughed. “But it sure kept them talking. And I must have done a good enough job, if I fooled you too.”
I could have smacked the little bastard. Or kissed him. I was that relieved.
“What was all that about her being special?” I asked.
“Oh, she is,” he said. “Mother cast a spell on Neda, too. All these years I thought it hadn’t worked, hadn’t done anything to her, but it did. It gave her perfect memory. You wouldn’t believe it, Mr. Fiffengurt. I wrote a six- foot string of numbers in the dust amp; read them to her aloud. She recited them all back to me in perfect order. She didn’t even have to try.”
I just stared at him. What could I possibly say? “You’re from a witching family,” I managed at last. “But does she have mind-fits, like you?”
“Sort of,” he replied. “She told me her memory can be like a horse that runs away with its rider. It just gallops off amp; she’s trapped, remembering more amp; more, faster amp; faster, even if what she’s remembering is terrible. I told her that sort of thing happened to me on Bramian, when the eguar made me look into Sandor Ott’s mind, and learn about his life. Neda said, ‘Imagine if at the end of that vision you couldn’t escape, because the mind you were looking into was your own.’ ”
The eguar. He’d never spoken to me of it before, but I’d heard him telling Undrabust about the creature. Like a crocodile, but demonic amp; huge, amp; surrounded by a burning haze. “What did that monster do to you, Pathkendle?” I asked him now.
Before he could make any answer, we heard the scream. It came from away aft, one or two decks below. A blood-curdler, if ever I heard one: a great man’s howl of pain, a warrior’s howl that twisted for an instant into a high womanish screech amp; was then cut off as if the throat that uttered it had just ceased to exist.
We ran back to the Silver Stair. The ixchel shrilled amp; threatened but we barreled past ’em. I already had an idea where we were going. Turach voices were exclaiming: “Oh no, no! Ruthane, you mad mucking-”
Seconds later we were there, in the manger. There was an unspeakable stench. The Turachs were clumped around the Shaggat, moaning; one of them had staggered away amp; vomited all the food he’d been allotted. But I knew that wasn’t what I’d smelled. It had happened again. Someone had touched the Nilstone.
I made myself draw nearer. There he was. Or wasn’t. Then I saw the armor, lying in that heap of bone-dust. Sweet Rin above, he was a Turach.
“He cut the sack with his knife,” said another of the marines. “He just reached up amp; cut a hole amp; put in his hand. What for, what for?”
Turachs do not cry, but this one was as close as I ever hope to see. Then he noticed Pathkendle. “You! Witch-boy! Was this another of your tricks? If you made him do it I’ll muckin’ break you in half!”
“I didn’t,” said Pazel, looking a bit ill himself, “and I couldn’t anyway, I swear it.”
“And he ain’t a killer, either,” I said.
“No, he ain’t,” said another. “He’s a good lad, even if he is a witch-boy. He’s proved that much.”
The soldier who’d snapped at Pazel looked at him now amp; nodded curtly. But his face was in a crazy rage. He looked down at the jumble of metal, teeth amp; bones that had been his friend. “Aw, Ruthane,” he said. Then his hands became fists. “By the Nine Pits, we know who can do this sort of devilry. Arunis! That’s right, Muketch, ain’t it?”
Pazel nodded. “Yes, sir. I believe it is.”
“Arunis!” howled the Turach at the top of his lungs. He drew his sword amp; held it on high. “You’re dead! You’re a Turach trophy! Can you hear me, you burst boil on the arse of a graveyard bitch? We’re going to snap your bones amp; suck the marrow. We’ll pull out your guts with our teeth, do you hear me? You’re mucking dead!”
And then, as if a startling thought had just occurred to him, the man spun around amp; thrust his hand into the hole in the sack his friend Ruthane had opened-and the Nilstone’s killing power ran down his body, fast as a flame takes a scrap of paper, and he was gone.
The pandemonium, the terror, the mourning beside those piles of ghastly remains: it went on through the night. I am at last back in my cabin, scribbling, unable to sleep. This is how Thursday begins.
[19 hours later]
No further attacks yet- amp; no sign of the sorcerer, though Rose has ordered the blary vessel torn apart from the berth deck up, amp; the ixchel swear on their ancestors’ souls that he’s not to be found on the lower decks. All the same it’s been a frightful time. Last night I saw Pathkendle back to Bolutu’s vacated cabin, inside the magic wall. I secured his oath not to stir before daylight, no matter what, even if he should be subjected to the misery of hearing Thasha amp; Fulbreech together in the stateroom. I gave my last report to the duty officer, looked up once more at the crowd on the walkway above (some of the dlomu have not tired of staring yet) amp; staggered back to my room. I had just closed my eyes when the door swung open, amp; who should slip into my cabin but Hercol. The Tholjassan raised a hand, warning me to be silent. Then he crouched by my bed amp; whispered:
“You must not ask me any questions, nor think too long on what I am about to say. I have given you grounds to trust me, have I not?”
“Pitfire, Stanapeth, of course,” I said.
“Then hear me well: you released Pathkendle out of kindness, but in truth he was safer in the brig. A thing may happen soon that will tempt him to interfere-yet he must not. So I must enlist you, though I wished to involve no one else in this matter. If the time comes, you may have to restrain him by force. And Neeps as well. Neither of them will understand.”
“Those prize idiots. What have they got themselves mixed up with this time?”
“This time they are blameless, Graff. But I told you-no questions. Only be ready to take them far from the stateroom, and keep them there, under lock and key if necessary. Be ready to do it the instant you hear from me.”
“Lock and key?”
“Listen to me, you old bungler,” he said, growing fierce. “You cannot fail in this. Lives are at stake, and not only the tarboys’. When the moment comes it will be too late to think of a story. Choose one now. I would hear you rehearse it before I go.”
“All right,” I said in surrender, thinking frantically. “The hag’s pet, Sniraga. Undrabust saw her last week. I’ll tell ’em I’ve got her trapped-in the bread room, say, and need help catching hold of her. There’s just one door, and it’s got double deadbolts.”
“Not brilliant,” said he, “but it should suffice. They trust you entirely.”
“They blary well won’t after I pull this trick! Stanapeth, why-”
He clamped his hand over my mouth. “Be ready, but do not dwell on what we have said. That is crucially important. You will understand when this is over, Graff. Let us hope it will be soon.”
With that he was gone, amp; I lay back stunned. I groped for my emergency bottle of brandy amp; nipped a mouthful. Remember, be ready, don’t think. How in the Nine Pits did one obey?
It occurred to me that I might yet salvage forty minutes’ sleep out of that hellish night. Once more I closed my eyes. Once more, as if the Gods had waited for me to do just that, the door flew open, this time with a bang.
Uskins blundered in, winded, looking even worse than I felt. “You loafer!” he croaked. “Still abed, and drinking, and everything falling to pieces!”
