The Night of the Swarm

water supply, who took us both hostage. Who have imprisoned us all in this bay.’

‘The crawlies are no longer our problem, Ott.’

‘Indeed. They do not control Stath Balfyr?’

‘Not our crawlies, no.’

A knock at the door. Rose started, but Sandor Ott called without turning: ‘Enter.’

The steward crept in, with Rose’s morning papers and tea service. Ott turned and walked past the man and nudged the door shut with his toe. Then he slid the dead bolt. The steward glanced up, startled. Ott shrugged and smiled, as though he were improvising a game. The steward placed the tray on the dining table.

‘Shall I fetch another cup, Captain Rose?’

Rose made no answer. Ott walked back to the table and poured himself tea in Rose’s cup and sipped it. He drained the cup and set it back on the saucer. Then he grabbed the steward by the hair. In a blur of movement he hauled the man down, hooked his left arm around the steward’s neck, moved his right hand to the man’s chin, and pushed once, ferociously. The steward’s head turned backwards, much too far. His gaze less shocked than saddened. The crack was audible. The man fell dead.

‘What were we saying?’ asked Ott. ‘Something about “our crawlies”, I believe?’

Rose found himself backed against the wall. Sandor Ott took a napkin and dried his lips. Less than six feet separated the men.

‘You were seen on the mercy deck. Is that where you released them?’

‘The mercy deck,’ said Rose. ‘Yes, it was there, forward of the tonnage shaft.’

‘And they fled through this strange Green Door? The door that you have, oddly enough, both padlocked and wedged slightly open?’

Rose nodded.‘Perhaps they did at that.’

‘Or perhaps not. Perhaps they are here under your mattress, or under the floorboards, or stuffed into speaking-tubes. How I wish there was trust between us, Captain. Our relations have been all wrong.’

What if he shouted? Just screamed for aid like a child? No, no: some things were forbidden him, forbidden any son of Theimat Rose.

He stepped away from the wall.

‘Take your knife, and your insinuations, and your killing glee from my sight,’ he growled. ‘Prepare a defence for this murder. At nine bells I will send the Turachs to place you in chains.’

Ott finally allowed himself a smile. He walked to Rose’s desk, tapped the papers there significantly.

‘Mr Elkstem tells me you borrowed our charts. Our crucial charts. That you brought them to your chambers. But they are not on your desk, or in your cabinets there. Would you care to save me the trouble of ripping the place apart?’

Rose felt his heart quicken. His mind had never worked faster in all his years. His eyes flicked right and back again.

Ott raised an eyebrow. ‘The washroom, Captain? What a curious hiding place. I do hope you’ve kept them dry.’

He stepped quickly to the door, passing very close to Rose again. Mocking him, daring him even to gesture at drawing that knife.

Ott pushed open the washroom door. He frowned: there were no charts in sight. He leaned in further to look behind the door.

A red whirlwind struck him full in the face. Sniraga had pounced from a shelf. Ott reeled backwards, tearing at the cat, and in that instant Rose drew his knife and stabbed.

The blade passed through Ott’s upper arm. Roaring, the cat still affixed to his face, Ott spun on his heel and kicked Rose squarely in the groin. The pain like an explosion. Like pressing one’s ear to the cannon as it fires. Rose staggered, swinging the knife before him, meeting only air.

Fall and die, fall and die. Rose slashed again, missed again. Ott tore the cat away and flung it with both hands at the wall. His face a ruin, his eyes blind with blood.

Blind. Rose charged the smaller man. He struck Ott like a bull, lifted him off the ground and crushed him against the wall. The spymaster’s head struck the solid wood. His hands clawed; he was groaning, red bubbles on his lips. Rose grappled tighter, slamming Ott again.

Ott’s teeth sank into his neck, tearing through flesh and muscle. Rose bellowed and lurched enormously. Then he slipped in the blood, and both men went down. Another crack. Ott’s head striking the table.

They were on the floor, entwined like lovers, bleeding to death. Ott’s torn mouth twitched, and he clawed feebly at Rose. The captain struck with his fists: two punishing blows, and Ott was still. Beyond the cabin men were shouting. He rolled away from Ott and groped for the desk. Haddismal and his men were out there, pounding. Somehow Rose gained his feet.

Perhaps Ott was dead. Never mind: he would hang if he lived. Rose dragged himself to the door and freed the deadbolt, but there was still something amiss. The doorknob would not turn. And then a new agony reached him, shouting to be heard above the rest. It came from his palm. He released the knob and looked at it. The flesh looked oddly burned.

Poison.

With his next breath it struck him. Like standing naked in a blast of sleet. He was paralysed, his limbs still as boards. The speed of it. Even his eyes were affected. Even the filling of his lungs.

The pounding went on. Somewhere behind him, he heard Ott begin to move.

Fiffengurt was out there too. ‘Get the rigging axe!’ he was screaming. ‘Those are siege-doors! You won’t just kick ’em in!’

Ott was crawling nearer. Then climbing to his feet. When he moved into Rose’s fixed angle of view he looked like a walking corpse. In one hand he held the shattered teacup by the handle, extending his little finger, ladylike. There it was, the grin. He turned the cup in his quivering hand, then drew the sharp edge once, swiftly, over the captain’s jugular. Blood burst out in a torrent, but Rose himself stayed rigid as he died. After a moment, professionally curious, Ott nudged him slightly, and the captain fell like a tree.

Now Sandor Ott had very little time. He seized the linen tablecloth and tore it into strips. The first he tied, mercilessly tight, above the wound on his arm. The second he doused with gin from Rose’s cabinet. Strong, antiseptic gin. He wiped his face with it, hissing with pain. He splashed more gin on his wound.

Crack. They were axing the doors. Ott cursed, and hurried back to Rose. He found the padlock key quickly enough, but what was that round thing in his vest pocket? He drew it out, and gasped at the weight in his hand. Then he saw what he held — and for the first time since childhood, experienced a moment of undeniable fear.

The Nilstone.

The Nilstone?

The black thing lay there in his hand, a pulsing orb, a tiny black sun. How was this possible? What had Arunis made off with, if not the Stone? Had the mage spirited it back aboard, somehow, through his control of Uskins? And why wasn’t it killing him?

Crack!

No time. Leave it or take it. Decide.

Ott took it. Then he turned and staggered to the door.

‘Leave off with that axe!’ He wiped the knob with great care, then slid the bolt. Men poured into the room, Turachs, common sailors, Fiffengurt the traitor, Haddismal the loyal fool. All screaming like children. As if blood were something beyond their experience. As if murder were the exception, not the rule.

‘The captain’s dead! The captain’s dead!’

‘The madness came for him,’ said Ott. ‘Sergeant, where is your field kit? I need bandaging.’

Haddismal raised his eyes from the carnage. He stared at Ott. Everyone was staring at something.

‘What’s the matter?’ said Ott. ‘You can see what happened here.’

‘Can we?’

‘The mind-plague took him. I heard sounds of violence, and came in to find him thrashing his steward. The man was still breathing, and I tried to revive him. Rose stabbed me while my back was turned, yet I bested him. Two dead. Very simple. Get me those bandages, dullard! Why do you-’

He froze. Against the far wall of Rose’s cabin lay a woman of some twenty-five years: naked, motionless, her