The Night of the Swarm

it was wide enough, and the wind they had ridden was pouring through it into the North. For a moment Hercol saw the world beyond: their own world, their own time. Then he felt Thasha’s fingers tighten on his arm. Her fury had rekindled. ‘Bring the wine, Pazel,’ she said.

‘No,’ said Pazel. ‘No more, not for a while, anyway. You held the Stone much too long, Thasha. You can’t just pick it up again.’

‘Can’t I?’

Thasha straightened, pushing away from Hercol, and began to stalk across the quarterdeck. His foot was still upon the Nilstone; he could not follow her. When Pazel did she turned him a glare so vicious that Hercol could scarcely blame the lad for hesitating.

But Fiffengurt did not see the look. Passing the wheel to Elkstem, he ran to intercept her.

‘Miss Thasha, enough! You don’t need to strike them again; they’re barely afloat! And that foul wine’s gone to your head-’

Thasha threw her shoulder against him, brutally. Fiffengurt was knocked off his feet, and Thasha crossed to the ladder, shouting: ‘Damn you all! Hercol, don’t you dare move the Nilstone!’

She threw herself down the ladder, onto the main level of the topdeck, and began to march towards the Silver Stair. But after just a few steps, something changed. Her feet slowed; her shoulders drooped. She cursed and stumbled. By the time she reached the Silver Stair the fight was over. She knelt, leaning heavily against the hatch coaming. She raised her eyes with effort, scanned the frightened faces. Then she toppled gently on her side.

Ramachni gazed down at her from the edge of the quarterdeck. ‘Sleep and heal,’ he said.

Pain flared suddenly in Hercol’s foot: the Nilstone was burning him, straight through his boot. He switched feet, staring into the impossible darkness. ‘Pathkendle,’ he said, ‘fetch me those gauntlets, before I kick this thrice- damned thing into the sea.’

The tarboy did not move. ‘Pathkendle! For Rin’s sake-’

Pazel had gone rigid, his face full of wonder and fear. All around them, pale, nearly invisible particles of light were swirling, drifting like a fine scarlet snow. A silence engulfed them, like the closing of a vault. Hercol raised his hand and saw the particles adhering to his skin. Unlike snow they did not melt.

The gap was imperfect. The substance of the Storm was thin here, but not gone. Only the world was gone. Behind them, ahead of them, North and South, Hercol could see nothing but a featureless glow. The veil of Erithusme’s spell had fallen. And when it rose again, how much of their world, their time, would it have stolen away?

The light began to coat the topdeck, the surviving rigging, the dead men sheathed in tar. Pazel was on his knees, beating the deck with both fists, unable to make a sound. Hercol longed for an enemy, for a reason to pull Ildraquin from its scabbard and whirl into battle with all his strength and skill. He closed his eyes but it made no difference; the light was inside.

31

The Editor’s Companions

I see them sometimes, in the lanes and gardens of this academical village, this haven untouched by war. Among the lecture halls in red brick and green marble, the rose beds and Buriav lilacs, there suddenly will shamble Fiffengurt, scowling, kindly, pushing a pram with a burbling daughter, studying the path before him with his one true eye. A little further, and there is Big Skip Sunderling carving meat in the butcher’s shop, up to his elbows in the job as always, happily a mess. Neda Pathkendle I have seen at the archery range, a strong, straight-backed woman of forty, teaching students to use a killing tool as a kind of diversion, a means of disciplining hand and eye, a game. I have seen Teggatz in a doctor’s coat, Bolutu pushing a broom, Lady Oggosk in the tavern where the fire is never lit, cloudy eyes on the window, eating alone.

They do not know me, of course; or if they do they know the professor whose reputation is so odd and dubious that all familiarity is feigned, A very good day to you, sir, and how are you enjoying this fine summer morn? I don’t like it when they speak to me. Not their fault, of course, but whoever could have guessed that in telling their story I should also be al icted with their faces, that a girl in her first student year would glance up from her book and pierce me with Thasha’s beauty, those questing eyes, that hunger for experience, for change?

Nilus Rose teaches physics in the Advanced Science Building; Marila storms by in a barrister’s robes; Ignus Chadfallow haunts the faculty club in the guise of the eldest waiter, who will tell you softly that food is not an entertainment but a sacrament, that the rice dishes are superior to the soups. Pazel has made but one appearance, at twilight on the wooded path behind the graveyard, hand in hand with an ethereal beauty whose face was not familiar at all.

They are here until they speak, or until I look a second time, until I summon the memories that sweep phantoms away. Sometimes I will look for them, when I am grumpy and tired of solitude, when living for the past seems less noble than cowardly, a betrayal of the warm blood still in me, a waste. The old spook at the faculty club, who is almost a friend, asked once if I didn’t also see myself about the school? Oh yes, frequently, I answered, and let it go at that. He is a gentleman; he assumes that I am sane. What would become of that charity, if he knew where my own doppelgangers appeared? The flash in the alley, the desperate little life, always hungry, always hunted, with senses too sharp for his own happiness, addicted to dreams that call him, nearer, ever nearer, dreams that terrify when they seem most true.

32

Men in the Waves

The world lurched, and Thasha woke in the sling they had fashioned to keep her from being tossed from her bed, and for a time she could not be made to understand.

It was Neda’s turn at her bedside, and their lack of a strong common language made things harder. Bright spots danced before Thasha’s eyes, and her fingertips were numb.

‘We’re out of the Storm, then?’

Neda mumbled something. Thasha repeated her question, louder.

‘No, no, Thasha. You are not feeling it?’

What she felt was the Chathrand heaving violently beneath her — climbing mountainous waves, clawing over the crests, rushing like a landslide into the troughs — and the soreness of muscles flung too many times against the canvas sling. What she saw was her old cabin, swept clean of any objects that could fall or fly; and Neda, balancing with sfvantskor grace, barely touching the bolted bedframe; and the sea foaming grey and furious over the porthole glass.

The bright spots were shrinking. Thasha breathed in warm, wet air.

‘I mean that we’re out of the Red Storm,’ said Thasha.

‘Of course.’

‘And smack in the middle of a blary gale. A killer.’

‘Not middle. Ending, maybe. I wish you sleep through it, sister.’

Thasha reached for Neda’s hand. Sister. To wake and find one watching over you. A sister, something new under the sun. The voyage had brought her far more than loss.

‘How long has it been?’ she said.

The ship rolled and heaved. The noise of the storm was strangely distant. Neda looked at her and said nothing.

‘Well?’

‘You’re awake. I am calling Pazel; he is exciting for you.’

Thasha didn’t release her hand. ‘Just tell me, Neda.’