The Night of the Swarm

All this was in the wee hours of that horrid night. Despite our exhaustion we were all on our feet save Lady Oggosk, who was slumped at the dining table, chewing cow-like on a lump of mul. But at Ott’s words she grew still, and her milk-blue eyes gazed up at us with wonder.

‘A tool,’ she said. ‘By the Night Gods, Nilus, the loathsome spy may be right. We know that Arunis made tools of everyone he touched. But in another’s hands he himself may have been a tool. And for what?’

She straightened up in her chair. ‘Not for the death of the world. He wanted that himself, needed it, worked like a lunatic to achieve it. No, Arunis feared nothing but the world’s salvation. And after death, he’s learned that this very mission stands a chance of bringing it about.’

The room fell silent. On Rose’s desk, Sniraga watched us, purring. Finally the captain spoke: ‘Arunis, a tool of the Gods?’

Lady Oggosk shook her head firmly. But Sandor Ott began a slow, loud clap. At first I thought him jesting, but then I looked at his face. He had never looked so blissful, so moved. He squeezed the witch’s hands (Oggosk recoiled with a scowl), and even gazed fondly at the rest of us. His eyes, I swear to Rin, were moist.

‘So,’ he said, ‘the truth appears at last. Despite ourselves, we are on the same side.’

We waited. No one had any idea what he meant.

‘Your duchess is most wise,’ he continued. ‘And let no one doubt it further: we shall be this world’s deliverance. The return of the Shaggat will be the Mzithrin’s death- knell, and the dawn of the Arquali age. In my darkest hours I have asked myself: why? Why did we ever crossed that horrid sea? Why so vast a journey, into such unknowns? Now I understand: it was that we might learn of Arqual’s greater task.’

‘Greater?’ rumbled the captain.

The spymaster nodded, enraptured. ‘The Black Rags will fall. The Crownless Lands we will harvest like grapes on the vine. And when the banner of His Supremacy waves over all lands north of the Nelluroq, then it will be time to plan a reckoning with the South. Don’t you see? Bali Adro is imploding, ruining itself. Their sun is setting; ours has just begun to rise. Arqual is the best hope for this poor, bludgeoned world. You know that. Everyone does, in his heart. And now at last we see the guiding hand. This bay will not hold us. Nothing can hold us, nothing ever stops this boat for long. Storms, thirst, whirlpools, crawly infestations, magical armies, mutant rats. We pass through them, straight and certain as the mind of Rin. And behold, this final proof: a devil risen from the Pits to try and thwart us. But he could not. The Emperor’s cause has the mandate of heaven.’

‘I didn’t say that!’ shrieked Oggosk. But the spymaster was already making for the door.

Thursday, 5 Fuinar 942. Fegin is our first mate, now; old Coote has replaced him as bosun. Jervik Lank, Chadfallow’s last assistant, is caring for tweny-four men in the sickbay, with help (of a sort) from Dr Rain, who is indefatigable, but cannot be left alone with the patients. I am told he recently brought them soup in a bedpan.

This morning Lank showed me a note he discovered in Chadfallow’s desk. It is written in the late doctor’s hand:

Let it be known that it is my wish to be buried in the heart of the Ruling Sea, not in waters claimed by any power in Alifros, for it was only when I cast off belief in nations that I perceived something of my soul.

However if circumstances allow, I should like my son, Pazel Pathkendle, to light a candle for me in the Physicians’ Temple at 17 Reka Street, Etherhorde. This is an amendment to my Last Testament of 5 Vaqrin 941, which in all other particulars remains in force.

Five Vaqrin! It appears that just days before the Chathrand sailed from Etherhorde, old Chadfallow made a will. I have asked Lank to search for that testament, even if he had to dig through every one of Chadfallow’s twenty-two crates of documents and scrolls. Lank was more than willing when he understood that by finding it he might be doing Pazel a good turn.

Felthrup, too, has taken an interest in Chadfallow’s papers, or at least one set of them: his log of the times and places where the Green Door appeared. Fascination with the door has passed like a germ from the doctor’s mind to the rat’s. Marila says that he read the logbook straight through six times, and then began to beg her to race about the decks with him to see if Chadfallow really had found a pattern. I gather they believe he has.

As for the doctor himself, we have embalmed him after the mariner’s fashion until we somehow escape this bay.¹⁷ And how long do we have for that little job? Today at five bells the swallows returned (along with Lord Talag and his frowning escorts) and carried off more ixchel, and at seven bells they did the same. At least a hundred have fled the Chathrand already. Most did not spare her a backward glance, but a few did, their copper eyes softening with affection. The worst of boats still tries to save us from the sea.

At eight bells, Felthrup made an odd request — an audience with poor Captain Magritte, the whaler we picked up in the Nelu Rekere, and his Quezan spearmen. Of course Magritte is blind — was blinded, rather, during the carnage at Masalym. An ixchel dropped on his head from above, and that was that. Two knives, tok-tok. Chadfallow told us he was lucky to have lived through it. I often wonder if Magritte concurs.

‘What d’ye want to go bothering him about?’ I asked Felthrup.

‘The world’s salvation!’ he squeaked. I had to bite my lips to keep from shouting Not you as well! I tried to put him off until evening, but to my surprise he grew quite fierce with me.

‘What favours have I ever asked of you, you white-whiskery man? Or have I not earned even one? You think me talkative, excitable, custodian of a vacillating mind. You think my worries are dander in the wind.’

‘Now, Ratty-’

‘Our doom is near, Mr Fiffengurt! The Swarm of Night is growing, growing. He did not lie about that!’

‘Who didn’t?’

‘Who! Who! That is my question exactly! His name is not Tulor, he lies! But if I guess his true name I shall have him!’

A man can face but so much jibberish. I roused Magritte and led him and Ratty to the compartment on the main deck where the Quezans sleep. For whalers and reformed cannibals they are an amazingly pacific bunch. All four stand over six feet and have long horizontal scars on their chests for every harpoon kill. But they fear sorcery more than death itself, and have never truly recovered from the battle with the monster rats. At the sight of Felthrup (who rushed at them, babbling) they exploded to their feet and fled by the opposite door. We had to hobble after them, across the deck and down the No. 4 to the berth deck. It took a great deal of soothing before they’d consent to listen to a talking rodent.

I was most irritated with Felthrup; I daresay Chadfallow’s murder opressed us both more than we knew. Luckily he wanted just one thing from the whalers. It was the meaning of a word, ‘Kazizarag’, which I gather he found in his blessed Polylex. He’d somehow deduced that it had its roots in the native Quezan tongue, and that Magritte was the only one aboard who might effect a translation.

In fact he was right on all counts. ‘Kazizarag’ means ‘greed’ or ‘gluttony’. But the word sparked nervous laughter among the Quezans, and after some hesitation they told Magritte that it was also a word attached to many a devil or villainous God in their stories: Uchudidu Kazizarag is ‘the Greedy Pig-Devil’ who steals from the poor man’s hut while he’s out fishing the reefs.

‘Of course he is!’ shrilled Felthrup, hopping with delight. Then he turned and looked up at me. ‘I must have gold, Mr Fiffengurt! A great deal, and quickly!’

I took him from the chamber and lowered my voice. ‘Come now, Ratty; why do you say such silly things?’

‘Oh, am I silly now?’ he shot back. ‘You have done no research. You have enjoyed fresh air and pleasant company while I sat alone on Thasha’s bed, turning pages with my teeth. And all the while he is screaming, screaming behind those iron bars.’

‘Iron bars? Are you talkin’ about someone in the brig?’

Felthrup shook his head. ‘Tell me quickly: do you know where the hoard is? The great hoard from the Emperor’s coffers?’

I was startled. ‘It ain’t in one place. They broke it up into smaller caches. I’ve a pretty good guess where one of ’em is, though.’