yourself, if I held a red-hot iron to your open wounds.”
“You don’t have the right to judge our sanity anyway,” said Pazel. “This ship is sovereign territory, and we’re all citizens of Arqual.” That was not entirely true, but at that moment subtleties hardly seemed called for.
“You are delusional,” said Vadu. “You speak of places that do not exist. It is a sad thing to witness, and I doubt you can be cured. Still, since the Empire’s leading facility is right here in Masalym, why not try?”
Chadfallow narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean? What facility?”
“All in good time,” said Vadu.
“Where’s Prince Olik gone?” Thasha demanded. “He said we were to meet with the Issar.”
“Prince Olik has been… called away,” said Vadu. Then, raising his voice, he said, “Enough! Will you come quietly, you five? Yes or no?”
“No!” cried Swift, clinging to a table leg.
“No,” said Thasha, loosening her hands for a fight.
“Why,” said Pazel, controlling his fury with great effort, “won’t you even consider that we might be sane? Isn’t that a bit crazy in itself?”
Vadu looked suddenly angry. His eyes shifted, as though Pazel had said something to embarrass him in front of his men. “I did not think that they would prove so vulgar,” he said. “I like them better without speech.”
“You can plainly hear that I’m being reasonable,” said Pazel. “I’m not even raising my voice. I don’t mean to insult you, Counselor Vadu. I’m just pointing out how wrong you aarrg-whaaa oh Rin please not nolufnarrrrrr-”
He covered his ears. The mind-fit, the assault of unbearable noises, dropped him shuddering to his knees. The soldiers backed against the walls; most looked ready to flee. Vadu screamed orders, waving his many-ringed hands at the humans. And before the fit blotted out his thoughts altogether, it occurred to Pazel that the argument had just been decided.
The gangways had been quietly lowered: halberd-wielding dlomic soldiers had swarmed onto the Chathrand. The show of strength was overwhelming. Wagons had been swiftly pulled up along both sides of the quay, and scores of barbarous cannon were revealed when their canopies were dropped. Archers with huge tripod-mounted crossbows, each one a bouquet of steel-tipped bolts, had raced into position between the wagons. Foot soldiers poured over the gangway, and with them came riders on beasts that filled the humans with terror. They were more like cats than anything else, but their backs beneath the saddles were broad and flat, and they stood as tall as horses. They growled at first sight of the humans, and their dlomu had to shout reassurances, swearing that the sicunas, as they were called, would not harm a soul without their riders’ permission.
Sergeant Haddismal saw the choice before him at a glance: surrender, or death and defeat. He cursed, but in truth he had expected this moment from the moment he saw that first stone wall rumble into place, sealing in the ship. He bared his teeth at the victors, but that was as far as his defiance went: martyrdom (this martyrdom at least) was no way to serve the Empire. He ordered his men to lay down their arms. In a matter of minutes the Great Ship was taken.
The dlomic forces were civil but firm. The ban on speaking to humans having been at least slightly relaxed, they demanded all weapons “larger than folding knives and smaller than cannon.” They also confiscated all sources of flame or combustion, from Mr. Teggatz’s stove-lighting matches to the explosives in the powder room. The humans themselves they split into groups: officers and soldiers on the topdeck, sailors, tarboys and steerage passengers below.
Counselor Vadu, pleased to have met with no resistance, climbed back to the topdeck and addressed the officers. “Your captain has been invited to assist the Plazic Battalion with certain inquiries. He will be returned to you shortly, if all goes well. Meanwhile I charge you with maintaining discipline among your people. They will not be harmed; indeed we have prepared extensively for their comfort and relaxation, in the pavilion at the Masalym Tournament Grounds. There you will, I think, have few complaints. You will cook your own meals. Women and children will have private quarters, with beds. You officers will be provided the same, but the rest of the crew must bring hammocks. Take whatever clothes and cherished belongings you may desire. It will be some time before we return you to this ship.”
The officers protested loudly. “What are you up to with her?” said Fiffengurt. “You’re fixing that crack in her hull, and we thank you for it. But that ship’s our home-our only home, now that we’ve crossed the Ruling Sea. You’ve got no right to poke around in her like something washed up on the beach.”
Vadu replied that Masalym reserved the right to inspect any vessel that entered its waters, let alone its walls. But he had clearly not come to debate.
“This is a time of war. I require you to bear that in mind. Chaos and disorder cannot be tolerated in a time of war. Your removal begins in ten minutes.” With those words he turned his back on the outraged officers, passed over the gangway, and descended into the city.
The debarkation was an orderly affair. The humans were marched in single file over the gangways, checked for weapons a second time on the quayside, then led away in groups of forty and fifty, each contingent surrounded by twice as many dlomic soldiers. Their path led down a wide, windy, lightless avenue. From the platforms, the sailors still disembarking could see their shipmates moving away in dark masses, surrounded by the torch-bearing dlomu. More like pilgrims setting off into a wilderness, thought Mr. Fiffengurt, than men at the start of shore leave.
The steerage passengers were offered assistance; the women handed woolen shawls against the wind, the oldest placed in litters, like royalty, and carried out on dlomic shoulders. Of all the humans, Neda came closest to provoking violence. She emerged onto the topdeck struggling and shouting, first in Mzithrini, then Arquali: “Where take my brother? He would be here, would be seeing me! You have him prisoner apart, yes? Where is my brother, monsters?”
There were few other incidents. One of the Quezan tribals from the whaling ship had yet to see a dlomu, and panicked at the sight of what he took for demons of the Underworld. He was held at bay in the officers’ mess until he saw by their faces that demons too could grow bored; then he grinned, shrugged and joined the exodus. A midshipman tried to smuggle a dagger ashore inside his bedroll. He was taken aside, made to kneel, beaten thrice with a cane and helped to his feet.
Outside the stateroom, Counselor Vadu’s expression reached a new extreme of shock as he leaned his hands against the magic wall. The utter surprise of encountering such magic was startling enough, although he knew quite well that charms and sorcery were leaking out everywhere these days: bleeding from the open sores of the South. And the largest sore of all was Bali Adro City, the capital he served (heretical thoughts, thoughts that could hang him; how fortunate that one’s mind was off-limits to investigators and spies).
A door stood open at the end of the passage beyond the magic wall. He could see a corner of an elegant cabin or stateroom. But he was far more taken with the sword. A great black weapon, battered and stained but radiating (he thought) a subtle power, an authority. It lay just inside the wall, as though flung in great haste-or carried there, by someone with the power to pass through.
He ordered the wall attacked with hammers, chisels, fire. He lowered men to the stateroom windows and tried to break them; but the glass when they struck it proved harder than any stone. The once-luxurious chamber could only be pierced with lamplight: inside, the dlomu saw a bearskin, a samovar, a table with the remains of a meal.
Some hours later Vadu returned to the passage outside the stateroom. Half a dozen men were still attacking the wall. “Sir, it’s no good, we can’t even scratch it,” confessed his captain-at-arms.
Vadu nodded. “I will try myself,” he said. And then, noting his men’s distress: “Yes, yes, you may all leave the compartment. Seal it behind you, in fact.”
His soldiers fled with unseemly haste. Vadu filled his lungs, squared his shoulders and put his hand on the pommel of his knife.
To draw the weapon required the whole strength of his arm. In the darkened passage a fell glow surrounded him, and the air began to shimmer. But in Vadu’s grip was little more than the handle of a knife: a hilt, and an inch- long, corroded stump of a blade. Yet all the disturbance in the air flowed from this tiny splinter.
Vadu felt as he always did when he drew the Plazic Blade: impervious and ruined, a titan of steel, ripped by dragons’ jaws. Above the hilt, a ghostly outline of a knife was forming, like a pale candleflame. He staggered forward and plunged it into the wall.
(Two miles away, in a wagon clattering through the Middle City, Thasha Isiq cried out in pain. She shot to her feet, eyes wide, furious with the sudden violation.)
