The Night of the Swarm

Most of his friends had seen it already: that ancient, half-height door, with an opening lever so corroded one feared to seize hold of it at all, lest it break. The patch of wall it occupied was the only place in the chamber not blocked by a birdcage. Convenient, that. And even more convenient was the nearness of the three-legged stool. A few nudges and Felthrup would be able to reach that rusty lever, if he chose.

Felthrup stepped in front of the door and sat down. He could feel his pulse racing. Think. Do not panic. Do not be a rodent now. Enchanted, perhaps cursed, the door appeared in odd places throughout the ship, vanished quickly, and did not appear again for weeks. Most of the crew had never glimpsed it; a few, like Thasha and Chadfallow, had seen it multiple times, and the doctor even logged the sightings in a notebook. Ramachni had warned Thasha to keep her distance. But oddly enough, the mage had also told Chadfallow that the door must be opened, sooner or later. That to do so could mean the difference between triumph and defeat.

Which story to believe?

Felthrup pushed the stool close to the door. He leaped up. The door was so old that cracks had opened wide enough for him to insert a paw. He bent his eye to a crack but could see nothing. Apparently the space beyond was dark.

Then Felthrup heard the voice.

‘Help me!’

A chill passed over him. The voice belonged to a young man. It was shouting, but Felthrup heard it faintly, as though from a great distance.

‘Help me! For the love of Rin, don’t turn away!’

Should he answer? Should he run? Chadfallow had never mentioned hearing voices, and neither had any of his friends. Why was he, Felthrup, being singled out? Was it because he had already passed through the ixchel’s magic portal? Or because of where he ventured in his dreams?

‘Who are you?’ he shouted into the crack. But his voice set all the birds to squawking so loudly that he could hear no answer, if answer there was. Felthrup whirled and hissed at the birds, then realised he was making matters worse. Aya Rin! This will be the death of me. He leaned his weight on the handle.

It moved. Old hinges shrieked, and dust lifted around the edges of the door. Now Felthrup heard the voice more plainly. ‘Is someone there? Don’t leave me, I beg you! I’m a prisoner in the dark!’

Felthrup leaped down and pushed away the stool. He sniffed: the air from beyond the door was close, like a vault opened after centuries. Or a tomb.

He shouted his question again. When the birds quieted he listened. The man’s voice came again: ‘Save me! In Erithusme’s name I implore you!’

Erithusme’s name! Felthrup rubbed his paws together in a whirl. Don’t listen! Don’t be fooled, rodent! Go and find Marila and warn the captain of the ixchel threat.

In Erithusme’s name?

Felthrup wriggled inside.

Marila chased after the captain, fuming.

‘Listen to me, sir! Lady Oggosk is throwing a fit! rowing other things, too. Cups and books and ink bottles and little glass figures. You’ve got to talk to her before she kills somebody.’

‘She has my blessing, provided she starts with you,’ said Rose, plunging down the No. 3 ladderway.

Marila pursued him down the stair. ‘That’s not all, Captain. Didn’t you see Mr Fiffengurt? Didn’t he explain?’

‘Fiffengurt has nothing to teach me about that woman’s hysteria,’ he shouted. ‘Be gone, girl! I have no time for urchins, married or not.’

He charged across the upper gun deck, and Marila saw that two figures were waiting for him ahead: one was the leader of the dlomic sailors, whom Mr Fiffengurt called Spoon-Ears. The other was Dr Chadfallow. Both men looked worried and confused.

Rose barrelled past them, beckoning. They followed him past the forward cannon to the door of the little room called the Saltbox, which Rose had given the dlomic officer to make what use of he would. All three men rushed inside. The door slammed. Marila stood a yard away and stared at it, hands in fists. Men and dlomu passed her with nervous glances. She felt very small and primitive and pregnant.

The door flew open; Rose stormed out. Or rather he tried to, but found Marila blocking his exit, a furious, dishevelled, black-haired little demon staring straight up into his eyes. ‘I have to speak with you,’ she said.

Rose lifted her like a straw and moved her aside. Then he rushed off across the deck.

Marila shot a glance at the two men in the chamber. The dlomu was leaning on the table, shaking his head as though overwhelmed by something he had learned. Chadfallow looked almost physically ill. He snatched up his medical bag and ran out of the Saltbox.

‘What’s wrong, Dr Chadfallow?’ demanded Marila.

‘What isn’t?’ he replied, not looking back.

Marila ran to catch up with Rose. He was talking to himself, rubbing his hands against his shirt as though he had touched something loathsome. He even sniffed them as he reached the Silver Stair and began to climb. To her pleas for attention he made no response at all. When they emerged into the hot sun again he made straight for his own chamber beneath the quarterdeck.

Rose hurled open the door and walked through.

‘Keep her out!’ he bellowed to his steward. The man was reeling; the door had struck him in the face. Hobbling forward, he made a gesture for scaring pigeons.

‘Get on. You’re a nuisance. Always have been. Go make trouble for somebody else.’

‘You think there’s trouble now,’ said Marila. She turned on her heel and began the long march back to the forecastle.

At the mizzenmast she intercepted Fiffengurt, who was rushing aft. The quartermaster too looked as though he might prefer to avoid her.

‘You didn’t tell him,’ she said, accusing.

‘Tell who?’

Marila just stared.

‘Ah, no, that I didn’t,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘Captain Rose — well I couldn’t, you see. The timing wasn’t right.’

‘We’re out of blary time. We’ve been here for nearly two days. How long do you think they’re going to wait?’

Fiffengurt looked sheepish. ‘He was confiding in me, lass. He’s never done that before.’

Marila shook her head in disbelief. ‘You and I are going to Oggosk,’ she said. ‘We’ll bring Felthrup; he should be waiting for me at the bird coops. We can’t put this off any longer.’

But Fiffengurt said he could not possibly go with her until the ship was safely inside the bay.

‘How can you use the word safely?’ asked Marila, struggling to keep her voice down.

Fiffengurt too spoke in a strained undertone. ‘We’ll be no more blary vulnerable inside the bay than out. It ain’t the same as landing, my dear.’

‘I know the difference,’ said Marila.

‘’Course you do. Well, the main thing is, we’ll be hidden from any Bali Adro vessels, see? Give me thirty minutes; then you and I can have our little chat with the duchess.’

‘What if Rose orders you to put a landing craft in the water right away?’

‘That ain’t likely. Now go stand over there.’

Marila planted herself near the quarterdeck ladder, arms crossed, as Fiffengurt shouted at the sailors and Mr Elkstem worked the helm. The manoeuvre did not look challenging. The mouth of the bay was a mile wide. The Chathrand had come around in a gentle arc from the south, close to the southern headland, and once past it they could see the bay’s white, sheltered beaches, and stands of majestic palms.

But as they drew closer the forward lookouts sounded an alarm: whitecaps, which meant shallows, or perhaps another reef. ‘Topsails down!’ bellowed Fiffengurt, and very soon the Chathrand slowed to a crawl. A lieutenant came running from the forecastle: there was a reef, he reported, but it did not close off the whole of the bay. The southern third of the mouth appeared wide open. They would have to skirt nearer to