The Night of the Swarm

few men whispered prayers, curled in their hammocks like babes in the womb.

In the secret brig, Rose climbed painfully to his feet. The maukslar was gone. It had become a whirlwind, knocked him flat on his back. The cell stood open. The false Nilstone lay in the centre of the floor.

Bastard. You might have kicked the mucking thing out of the cell.

Captain Kurlstaff had warned him about the cell doors, and Rose believed every word: the man had died here, after all. Rose walked to the cluttered passage, and combed through the detritus on hands and knees until he found a battered pike. He carried the weapon back into the brig, carefully avoiding the door, and teased the false Nilstone out through the bars, never letting so much as a finger cross the threshold.

So black! he thought. You told the truth, creature: I am not disappointed. The leopard’s eye had become a well into which one could pour all the light in the world. It hurt to look at it: he struggled to focus on a thing that was all absence, a thing that was not there.

And this is just an imitation.

He picked it up. No, it did not kill at a touch. But it dizzied him, throbbing with enchantment, and it weighed a great deal. Once in his pocket, however, both weight and dizziness abated. He kicked the empty sea chest towards the cell, then finished the job with the pike, nudging it inside as far as he dared.

Outside the Green Door, he replaced the chains and padlocks. All was quiet: at least the maukslar had not roused the ship. He crossed the deck in darkness. Who needed a lamp? The Chathrand’s lines were etched for ever on his soul.

On the topdeck, a warm rain was starting, and a wind that gusted and died. He asked the duty officer for the status book, and scanned the entries as he had done four times a day for most of his life. When he was done he turned and saw that Fiffengurt had crept up behind him.

‘You again,’ he snapped. ‘What is it? Have you something to report?’

‘No, Captain,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘I. . couldn’t sleep, sir. Just taking some air.’

Rose dismissed the duty officer, then turned and glared at Fiffengurt. In a low growl, he said, ‘Your previous assignment: abandon it. That matter is closed.’

‘Closed?’

‘Thasha Isiq is alive. She is very near to the Nilstone, and they are both moving quickly.’

‘Captain! Captain!’

‘Do not shout, Fiffengurt. The creature knew no more than that.’

‘You went to see that thing? Alone?’

‘Listen to me,’ said Rose. ‘This is not a warship — not a proper warship — and the crew will never be as sharp as it was. They are weak in body and in spirit, and some of the best men with a cannon are dead.’

Fiffengurt began to mouth some reply, but Rose cut him off. ‘A man is lost in the forest.’

‘Who, sir?’

‘It’s a fable, you dullard. He is lost, and a tiger has his scent. He may be days, even weeks from the forest’s edge. He has only a little knife; the tiger has claws and strength and cunning. It is circling him. It knows the forest better and can see in the dark. How does he escape the tiger?’

‘I know!’ said a voice from inside Fiffengurt’s coat.

It was the rodent. Fiffengurt blushed, and squeezed the animal a little against his side. He had evidently told it to keep quiet.

‘I’d say you take to a stream, sir. Hide your scent, and wait for the beasty to move off on his own.’

Rose shook his head. ‘You’re on the right track. But you cannot stay submerged for long in a chilly stream.’

‘Carve a spear with that knife, then.’

‘And trust your life to one jab with a crooked stick? This is a master killer, Fiffengurt. It will come at you out of the dark like a living cannonball. It will tear you to shreds.’

Fiffengurt closed his mouth and waited. Rose gave a snort of dismay. ‘It is a wonder that you’re still among the living,’ he said. ‘Well, that is your new assignment: save the man from the tiger. Now go to sleep. There is fighting ahead.’

With that Rose made for his cabin. Fiffengurt watched him go, bewildered as ever. Felthrup’s head emerged from the fold of his coat.

‘He should have asked me,’ said Felthrup. ‘I’d have told him: climb a tree.’

Rose slipped into his cabin, closed the door, leaned on it heavily — a gesture of fatigue he had not allowed himself in forty years. He was ready for that brandy now. Ready for this hellish night to end.

He had left the window open. The rain was gusting in from starboard. Rose stripped off his own coat and hung it by the door. The papers waited on his desk; the untouched dinner setting waited on the table. He closed the windows. From this one, here, he’d thrown a man to his death. A company tattle-tale, not one of his crew. Still, just another lost simpleton, another pawn. It was no good being the pawn of any man, king or commoner, living or dead.

He whirled.

The papers, yes: they were still there. But the glass of brandy was not.

Across the large room, in the corner reserved for informal visits, Sandor Ott was tipped back in a chair with his feet upon a small round table. His left hand cupped Rose’s drink. His long white knife lay on the table, unsheathed.

‘I think,’ he said softly, ‘that you had better give an account of yourself.’

Rose moved to the dining table, breath short, mind churning. Do not hurry. Ott was always ready for violence, never for superior calm. This was how you fought him: by making sure he needed you, and by drowning him in calm. Rose struck a match and held it to the fengas lamp, but the fuel was nearly gone, and the weak flame barely lit the room. He found the brandy and poured a half shot. His favourite, this one. But tonight it was foul, bile and bathwater. What had become of his will to drink?

When he faced Ott again the spy had risen, and was moving towards the door. Rose was shamed by his own relief, the cold sweat he was drenched in, the smack of his heart. Then he glanced at the little table and heard himself say, ‘You’ve forgotten your knife.’

‘Have I?’ said Ott. ‘Well, then, I suppose I’d better not leave, just yet.’

He hesitated, fiddling with the doorknob it appeared. Then he turned and put his hands in his coat pockets and walked to Rose. For a moment, despite his scars, he looked like an old homebody, some frail Arquali blue-blood about to whistle up a dog. Rose waited for the inevitable grin to break out across his face. But Ott was not grinning. He was waiting for Rose to speak.

‘Did you pick the lock?’

‘No need. You’d left the windows open. An easy climb from the wardroom below. Why did you open them, in the rain?’

‘It wasn’t raining when I left.’

‘Then you’ve been a long time wandering your ship.’

‘That is my prerogative. Now get out.’

‘But Rose, I have suggested something better. Something decidedly better for you. If only you will heed me.’

Ott was staring up at him, and standing too close. Rose gazed at the white knife still lying on the table. He had his own, of course. Right there on his belt, just inches from his hand.

‘I will receive you on the morrow,’ he said. ‘Come back then if you would speak.’

‘The morrow is here, Captain Rose.’

As if to prove his point, the duty officer gave the bell seven strokes. A dark, wet dawn was breaking somewhere. Rose scowled and brushed past the spymaster, forcing himself to make contact with the man. Ott let himself be moved. Rose lumbered towards his bedchamber.

‘Did the crawlies threaten you, or pay a bribe?’

Rose missed a step, and glanced back sharply. There, he’d botched it. He might as well have written a confession in scarlet ink.

‘You let them reboard,’ said Ott. ‘You aided them. The creatures who poisoned our