meal seemed excessive to you, starving as you were. But it would have fed ten times as many dlomic mouths. They gave you everything they could put their hands on-even though many of them believed you were ghosts. In our stories even ghosts need to eat.”
“Perfect lunacy,” said Fiffengurt.
“That too is forbidden!” Olik laughed. “A grave insult it is-a fighting insult-to call another mad.”
“Ibjen explained already, Prince,” said Bolutu, “but even I have trouble remembering.”
“See that you remember tomorrow,” said Olik. “Well, goodbye, my new friends. Rest today; you will soon need all your strength.”
He rose then and bowed to Thasha and Marila-and then, catching himself, Ensyl. The captain led him to the door and opened it, and the prince was already in the passage when Pazel said, “Wait, Sire. What about your third suggestion? It wasn’t about madness, was it?”
Olik turned in the doorway. He rested both hands on the frame. “No, it wasn’t, Mr. Pathkendle,” he said. “My third suggestion I nearly decided to keep to myself. But now I think I will speak after all.”
His voice had a sudden, utterly chilling edge. “My third suggestion is that you be far more careful in whom you confide. As you say, you know little about me. I could well be an enemy-perhaps an ally of Arunis, or of Lady Macadra and the Raven Society. But you assumed I was a friend, and lavished information on me. You confirmed that the Nilstone and Arunis are aboard this ship-I was, in fact, guessing about both. You, Undrabust, named those who bear the mark of Erithusme: I did not know that you and Hercol were among them. You, Master Felthrup, revealed that you’re a woken animal-to a prince of the Imperium that labels such creatures maukslarets, little demons, and has hunted them to the edge of extinction.”
Heart racing, Pazel moved in front of Felthrup and Marila. Thasha stepped up beside him. The prince’s smile was impenetrable. Then he turned and looked coldly at Bolutu.
“And you, brother: you were the worst by far. You barely spoke, but when you did, you revealed your passionate hatred for the Ravens. You let me know that you would consider it a dark day if Bali Adro should ever be ruled by that noble Society, which counts both Arunis and Macadra among its founders. But you have been gone a long time, Bolutu, and that day has come. When I leave here I shall endeavor to forget that you spoke those words. I most earnestly advise you to do the same.”
Springing the Trap
1 Modobrin 941
Later that morning Arunis killed again.
This time the one who came for the Nilstone was Latzlo, the animal dealer and one of the “illustrious passengers” referred to in Old Gangrune’s report. He had once been illustrious enough, or at least very rich. To this day he still wore the same broad snakeskin belt, although he had lost so much weight that it could have gone twice around his middle, and the black scales were falling out. The journey had not been kind to Latzlo: he had come aboard to woo Pacu Lapadolma, a young woman who despised him, only to watch her marry the Mzithrini prince in Thasha’s stead. After Simja, like many others, he had been kept aboard at spear-point. During the crossing of the Nelluroq he had watched his fortune in exotic animals disappear one by one, sometimes into the galley, and thence the ever-hungrier mouths around Rose’s table. A great number had literally disappeared, during the battle with the rats. The animal-seller had grown steadily more ill-tempered and withdrawn.
He was not universally despised, however. Mr. Thyne, the other “illustrious passenger” trapped against his will aboard the Great Ship, had kept up a friendship of sorts with Latzlo. When the disaster came the two men, along with a young midshipman by the name of Boone, were playing a fitful game of spenk on the topdeck.
They were playing for sugar cubes. Latzlo was winning handily, though his face showed no joy. Thyne was down to six cubes when he executed a particularly daring bluff, and won a round.
“Back in the game, Ernom!” He laughed, slapping Latzlo’s knee.
“Ouch,” said Latzlo.
“Never say die!” added Boone, who had a gold earring and a voice that sounded too deep for his skinny frame. “Bet you thought you had him, didn’t you, Mr. Latzlo?”
Latzlo rubbed his knee, scowling. “I quit,” he said.
“Oh, come now, that isn’t sporting,” said Thyne. “You’ve still got three-quarters of the cubes.”
“Do you think it tickles, when you slap a man?”
Startled, Thyne glanced at Latzlo’s knee. “What, have you got a rash there? I didn’t know.”
Latzlo rose to his feet. “Keep the sugar,” he said. “I know where there’s something sweeter by half.”
“Do you now?” said Thyne as Boone began to scoop up Latzlo’s cubes. “Where’s that, I should like to know?”
“Where it’s always been,” said Latzlo. “Right there in his hand.”
He turned to portside and walked quickly away, like a man with an urgent errand to perform. Thyne watched him a moment, frowning. Then he noticed Boone’s sugar-grab and forgot Latzlo for a moment. The men scuffled, scattering cards and sugar, until Thyne froze with horror in his eyes.
“Rin’s Angel, he’s talking about the Shaggat Ness!”
They bolted after the animal-seller. By now Latzlo was halfway down the No. 4 ladderway. When he heard them coming he too began to run. They caught up with him only as he reached the doors to the manger-unlocked, by the strangest coincidence, for the changing of the Turach guard.
“Stop him, stop him! He’s going for the blary stone!”
The replacement guards were due any minute. Of course the men of the earlier shift were still at their posts. Never for one minute would the Shaggat be left unattended.
“Don’t hurt him!” cried Thyne.
There were six Turachs in all, wielding maces and clubs. They had waited for such a moment since the deaths of their comrades, and they formed a deadly line in front of the Shaggat. Latzlo went into a frenzy. He lunged for the Shaggat-and the soldiers slammed him to the ground. He had never been strong, and not even possession by Arunis could give him the strength to overpower half a dozen marines. Still, he writhed and kicked and spat and howled. He bit his tongue; blood oozed from his lips. Then suddenly he began to scream: “Thyne! Thyne! Help! My knee!”
The soldiers dragged him to a corner. “His blary knee again,” said Boone. “Look, he’s hurting something awful!”
A Turach poked Latzlo’s knee. The animal-seller howled in agony: “Get it off, Thyne! Cut it off! It’s burning straight through my leg!”
“That snakeskin belt’s all in knots,” said a Turach.
“Cut it away, there, something’s wrong!” shouted Thyne. “Hurry, you louts! It’s killing him!”
“Nothing to cut with,” said the Turach in command. “No blades allowed in the same room with the Nilstone, after-!”
“I have one! Take mine!” said Boone, unfolding his stockman’s knife.
Latzlo twisted, screaming louder than ever. “Just cut the mucking trousers!” shouted Thyne.
Boone leaned in and slashed. The knife was sharp; the cloth parted, and a soldier ripped the trouser leg open to Latzlo’s hip.
There was no visible wound. But there was something. Words, in fact, scrawled in ink above the knee. Thyne leaned closer, morbidly curious, and read aloud:
“All…of… you… in… time.”
Latzlo stopped screaming. The chilling words hung in the air. Then came a dull thump: an object falling to the deck from a height of some six feet. It was the midshipman’s knife.
Boone himself was nowhere to be seen. Once again, however, there was a small incision in the canvas hiding the Nilstone. And beneath the Shaggat’s upraised arm, several buttons, a gold earring and a few withered ounces of mortal remains.
“It’s almost as though he planned it that way,” said Neeps.
