The Night of the Swarm

‘Yes,’ said Thasha, ‘even though.’

Beside her, Neeps’ mouth was frozen in a belligerent expression. It took Pazel a moment to realise he was fighting back tears. ‘Pitfire, Mr Bolutu,’ said Neeps, ‘you’ve been fighting these bastards longer than any of us, except Ramachni. And you — you lost everyone, didn’t you?’

‘I lost my world, lad — my entire world.’ Bolutu closed his eyes a moment, then smiled and opened them. ‘I gained a new one, though. In time. It is only during this year away that I have come to understand how much it means to me. Human company, human food, the foul-smelling Etherhorde streets, Arquali music, the misfits of Empire who embraced me as one of their own. That world is mine, now, and I mean to keep it. That is why I shall remain on the Chathrand.’

His friends shouted with joy and surprise. ‘But you’ll be the only blary dlomu in Arqual!’ said Pazel. ‘They’ll think you’re a monster. Or will you try to become human again?’

‘Never that!’ said Bolutu. ‘No, I shall depend on you to attest to my non-monstrous character. Daily, if necessary.’

‘They’ll hound you,’ said Neeps. ‘Even the nice ones.’

Bolutu nodded. ‘Let us hope the world survives to inflict such minor miseries.’

Fegin blew two notes on his whistle. ‘Time, gentlemen!’ said Fiffengurt. ‘To the ship you mean to sail on, double quick.’

There was a great rush to the starboard rail. The last of the Masalym volunteers descended, to cries of Rin keep you! and Bakru waft you gently home! Then the Arquali sailors broke down in messy grief, cursing and hanging on one another and bawling like calves: ‘We won’t forget ’em! Never! Who says we’ll forget, damn the bastard? We love them old mucking fish-eyes!’ It was not long before a Plapp swung at a Burnscover, or perhaps vice versa, and soon a dozen men were throwing fists. Captain Fiffengurt raged, looking for the first time like his predecessor. Fegin blew his whistle ineffectually; the dogs howled, and Mr Bolutu sat down atop a five-gallon bucket and laughed. But Pazel stood still, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the night breeze. Kirishgan had not departed. He stood by the folding ladder, indifferent to the mayhem, watching the Promise as her ghostly sails bore her away.

Damn you, Kirishgan! Are you trying to get yourself killed?

Cooler heads dragged the fighters apart, and a kind of order returned to the topdeck. The Promise shrank away towards the southern horizon. Then Kirishgan turned his sapphire eyes on Pazel. Neither one of them had moved.

‘Why?’ said Pazel.

Kirishgan folded his hands upon the rail. ‘My path had become a mystery to me,’ he said. ‘I was without purpose, and that is a fearful thing for any creature, young or old. The mists only began to clear when you arrived in Vasparhaven. The stories you told me of the North, that night over tea — they echo yet in my mind. Arqual, the Mzithrin, the Crownless Lands: they have forgotten the selk altogether. A great part of Alifros no longer knows that we exist. I must change that. I must look for my brethren, and find a way for them to speak once more to the peoples of the North. Or if I cannot find them — if they are all dead or departed — I must do what I can alone. If nothing else, I can remind your people that the story of Alifros is longer than the story of humankind.’

‘Just by showing your face.’

‘By doing as you have done,’ said Kirishgan. ‘By telling stories.’

‘You’re cracked, you and Bolutu both,’ said Pazel. ‘Have you forgotten what we’re like? They’ll panic, or throw stones. They’ll lie to you, and take advantage of your honour. They won’t listen to your stories.’

‘They?’

‘We. Human beings. Oh credek, Kirishgan, I don’t know. I’m not sure I’m part of the we any more.’

Now the selk smiled. ‘There is your answer, Pazel. I am going with you to encourage such doubts.’

Hard about, and due north. It was Fiffengurt’s aim to sail as close to the Red Storm as they dared (some ten miles), and then tack west to meet Niriviel, keeping well clear of Stath Balfyr and her shoals. Soon they were close enough to the Storm for Pazel to make out its texture: strands, snowflakes, rippling sheets of light. That storm had thrown his mother two hundred years forward in time. No wonder she’s so odd. She isn’t just a foreigner in the North. She’s a visitor from a world that no longer exists. And Bolutu’s another. How have they been able to stand it? How have they done so well?

He recalled what Erithusme had said, how the Red Storm had stopped the plague from spreading north, how every human being in Arqual and the Mzithrin owed his life to that red ribbon of enchantment. Against all that, the time-exile of a few sailors counted for nothing. Unless you were one of them, of course. He looked again at the pulsing Storm. The world’s edge, that’s what it is. We’re ten miles from the end of everything we know.

But the Storm did not tame the ocean. The minute the Chathrand cleared the shoals, every person aboard felt the huge, unbridled swells, and knew that they had at last returned to the Ruling Sea. There was almost no transition: suddenly the waves were gigantic, moving hills that barrelled towards them, tireless, infinite. The Chathrand rode them easily; she could stand much worse. Still, the sensation left men thoughtful. Worse was something everyone remembered.

They tacked west into a headwind, which they battled for the next six hours. It was hard work for the night watch; but then there was no true night this close to the Red Storm. The strange light caused some headaches, and a sense of unreality as men fumbled about in its saturating glow. But the urge to flee was strong. They left Stath Balfyr behind (Myett and Ensyl watched it vanish, two women seeing the death of a dream) and at sunrise caught a favourable wind, upon which Kirishgan said he could taste the scent of honey-orchids in Nemmoc, and the dust of the Ibon Plain. But the human crew smelled nothing, and they caught no further glimpse, then or ever, of the lands of the South.

The day passed without incident, though the ship creaked and complained from spots Mr Fiffengurt had hoped were sound. Rain struck, benevolent and cool; when it passed on into the Red Storm it blazed like falling fire. Another bright night began. A pod of whales surrounded the Chathrand, and swam along with her for hours. Felthrup sat alone in a gunport and listened to their clicks, chirrups, rumbles, their pipe-organ breaths.

Deep in that night without darkness, someone screamed. It was not a sound anyone aboard had ever heard before. It was a selk’s cry of anguish; it was Kirishgan. They found him near the bowsprit, crouching down as though praying. His body shook. When he raised his head there were tears in his brilliant eyes, and he told them that he had felt the death of kinsmen.

How many? they asked.

‘Many,’ he said. ‘More than on any night since the Plazic generals began their exterminations.’ But he could not say which of his people had fallen, or at whose hand.

Some hours later a different sort of cry — Niriviel’s — woke Pazel for the second time that night. He tried to rouse Thasha, but she only groaned, so he left her sleeping and ran barefoot to the topdeck, pausing only to grab his coat. Hercol and Ramachni were there already, along with most of the dog watch. They were clustered around the ship’s bell, and atop the latter stood Niriviel, exhausted, his cream-yellow chest heaving. When he could speak he confirmed the worst.

‘I was far from both vessels, but I saw the Death’s Head giving chase, and the Promise leading her away to the southwest. The Promise was faster, and drawing away. Then a shot from Macadra’s vessel brought down her mainsail, and the Death’s Head closed very fast. When she was within a half-mile, she fired again. But it was not a cannon she fired, this time. It was a ball of red fire, spit out from some foul weapon on her quarterdeck. It struck the Promise square on her hull.’

Pazel felt as though he himself had been struck, very hard in the stomach. This, of course, was what Kirishgan had felt. Lunja. Prince Olik. Nolcindar. They had led Macadra astray, given Chathrand time to flee. And for their courage they’d been killed.

‘Macadra carries Plazic weapons, then,’ said Hercol.

‘Like the Behemoth’s,’ said Pazel, ‘but why in the Pits didn’t she use them before?’

‘Perhaps because she feared to sink the Nilstone to the seabed,’ said Ramachni, ‘and this time, drawing near enough to sense its absence on the Promise, she did not hesitate to strike a lethal