Thasha raced up the ladderway, swift and soundless. Let it be me, Rin, only me who deals with Fulbreech. I’ve earned that much, haven’t I?
On the topdeck the night shift was still at repairs. It was very windy; the lanterns sputtered, and the torches of the dlomic guard writhed fitful and low. Thasha’s bare feet were cold on the dew-spattered planks. But just ahead of her the door to Rose’s cabin beneath the quarterdeck creaked open an inch, and there was Rose himself, scowling, beckoning. “What took you so long?” he whispered, tugging her in.
Pazel stared at the lamp before him. Fiffengurt was right: it would have to be extinguished. Already the bread room was filling up with fumes.
Outside the door there was an ominous silence. Marila had not spoken again, and Fiffengurt had stopped answering questions. But there were new sounds, creaks and cleared throats and footfalls, and they didn’t belong to the quartermaster and Marila alone.
Neeps was still pacing, raging, coughing on the smoke. In time he heard the new voices as well. Staggering over to Pazel, he whispered, “They’ve brought reinforcements. Good show, mate, sitting there like that. When things get rough, drop on your bum and brood, I always say.”
Pazel caught him by the arm. “Be quiet. Please.”
“Quiet? Quiet? You’ll be saying that when Arunis grabs the Stone and fries us like a skillet of clams!”
Pazel closed his eyes. In the depths of his brain an idea was fighting for air (as he himself was, with growing difficulty). No matter how he struggled it slipped away, just out of reach. Neeps went back to the door, coughing and shouting for Marila.
At last Pazel had it. He opened his eyes and turned to face a cluttered corner. The very corner where he had briefly crouched, looking for Sniraga. He crawled forward, shouldering the bread boxes to one side.
Neeps saw him and hurried back to his side. “What is it? You have a scheme, don’t you? Tell me!”
“The floor,” whispered Pazel. “Look at it, right there.” He pointed at a spot some three feet out from the wall. Neeps stepped closer, squinting: almost imperceptibly, the tin floor sagged.
“My knee did that,” said Pazel. “I put my weight there, and felt it bend. I’d nearly forgotten-it happened just as Fiffengurt was locking us in.”
“A weak spot?” said Neeps.
“Something even better,” said Pazel. “A bare spot is what I’m guessing: a place with no planks beneath the tin.”
“What on earth makes you say that?”
“Think about it,” said Pazel. “This is the orlop, and we’re two compartments forward of the Holy Stair.”
“So?”
“Neeps, that’s damn near dead center above the spot where the ixchel set their trap.”
“The charge, you mean? The black-powder charge that nearly blew Ott to pieces?”
“Right,” said Pazel. “Uskins was talking about it only yesterday-in the middle of his rant about finding and killing the remaining ‘crawlies,’ remember?”
Neeps’ eyes gleamed suddenly. “Pazel, you’re a wonder! He said the blast tore up the ceiling, didn’t he?”
“Right again,” said Pazel. “Now give me a hand.”
He turned and began shoving the bread boxes closer to the door. Neeps pitched in at once, asking no further questions. The fumes were by now very strong; when they stood up they could hardly breathe at all. Somehow they managed to push the majority of the boxes close to the door; then they hurried back to the corner.
“Hold this,” said Pazel, passing Neeps the lamp.
By its dim light Pazel crawled toward the low spot in the floor, pounding experimentally with the heel of his hand. At first the tin rang dully against solid wood: the low solid planks of the underlying floor. But as he neared the spot, it changed. It sounded hollow, and his blows caused the metal to shake. He rose to his feet and jumped. From beneath him, faintly, came the sound of falling debris. “We’re getting out of here,” he said.
“Don’t be… too sure,” Neeps replied between coughs. “The metal’s nothing sturdy, I know. But we’d still need… tin shears, or a hacksaw maybe. I’m sorry… you know I want out of here as badly as-Pitfire, watch it! What do you think you’re doing?”
Pazel had kept one of the bread boxes near at hand. Now he was raising it with difficulty above his head. He pointed one sharp metal corner at the floor. “Stay back,” he said, and brought it down with all his might.
The resulting crash was very loud. Outside the room, voices exploded: “Pathkendle! Undrabust? What in the sweet Tree’s shade are you doing?”
The box had dented the floor, but not pierced it as he’d hoped. He raised it again, and slammed it down once more.
“Muketch! Stop it, damn you!”
This time the box gouged a pinhole through the tin. Pazel struck a third time, and the hole became a matchstick-length tear.
“Blow out the lamp, Neeps,” he said.
“Now? You’ll be blind as a mole!”
“Hurry!”
Neeps blew out the lamp, and darkness swallowed them. Pazel struck out blind, again, and again. His lungs were burning, his mind in a haze. Then the door flew open and someone leaped into the room.
“Muketch! Undrabust!”
It was Sergeant Haddismal. The Turach waved his hands before his face, choking on the fumes, and began to thrash among the bread boxes.
Pazel struck once more. Haddismal spotted them and lunged. He swatted Neeps from his path with one hand. On an impulse Pazel tossed his box aside, leaped in the air and came down hard on both heels.
The floor split like an awning stabbed by a knife. Pazel scraped through, bloodied, and was running before his feet touched the floor of the deck below.
Fulbreech glided past the gunports, the dormant cannon, the heaps of rigging struck down for repairs. Not hiding: he was the surgeon’s mate, after all, and this was the way to sickbay. No one would ask where he was bound, at this or any hour. Still, it was a pleasant surprise to find the ship so quiet. Hardly anyone about, save a few tarboys scrubbing pots in the galley, and the night shift on the main deck, shaping crosstrees for the mizzenmast. As if they were going to take her anywhere, he thought with a moment’s unease. But then he reminded himself that it no longer mattered. Once his master heard what was coming he would have no choice but to act.
I could take it now, he had told Fulbreech. Just as surely as she did, ages past, from that cavern in the Northern ice. But she was weaker than I, weaker by far. The Stone marked her, burned her hand, and from that first tiny incision the great Erithusme began to die. I have been more careful, Fulbreech-her fate will not be mine. All the same I will wait a little longer, if I can.
Thus had Arunis spoken at their last clandestine meeting, just hours after Thasha had come to Fulbreech in tears, and said, I told Pazel, Greysan. About us. He didn’t want to believe me, but he did at last. There’s no one between us anymore.
His master had smiled at that.
But Fulbreech knew there would be no smiles tonight. His master forbade any visit to his hiding place, his lair, between their scheduled meetings. Had threatened to skewer him alive if he did so, in fact-unless disaster threatened them, or threatened the Nilstone. In that case, you must come to me instantly. Decide nothing for yourself beyond the practical. You understand? While you are in my service you may entertain no philosophy, no questions of motive or end. You could never grasp the answers. Concern yourself with how, not why. You are my puppet, Fulbreech. You are my eyes, ears, hands. That would all change, his master had promised, in the life to come. But for now there was a disaster to avert.
Fulbreech quickened his pace. Just this once he was tempted to abandon the guise of the young medical apprentice. But could he bypass sickbay altogether? No, that would draw attention; he must walk through the ward at least. There was time. He’d been quick. Twenty minutes ago he’d still been fondling that girl.
He entered sickbay, with its reek of iodine and sweat, and to his unspeakable rage found Ignus Chadfallow on duty. The man was indefatigable. After midnight, and here he was, bothering patients, kneading their scalps, taking notes on the discharge from their eyeballs, poking that thermometer in whatever orifice was nearest to hand.
“Fulbreech! I’ve been looking for you, lad. Would you like to observe a nearly flawless vestibular
