‘Because we’re a weird sight, that’s why. Think, Pathkendle! This ship was at the heart of Magad’s blary conspiracy, and no one’s seen her in six years! We can’t just pop up like the provisional weasel.’
‘Provisional!’ shrilled Felthrup. ‘Sir, your imprecisions are disastrous. First of all, the word is
‘A school-master rat,’ muttered Druffle. still grinning. ‘Riddle out this one, then:
‘Impossible!’
The argument was cut short by the peal of the ship’s bell. At once boots began to pound, and orders began to fly: mainsails in, capstan teams to their stations! Fegin blew shrill notes on his whistle. Mr Druffle slapped Pazel on the back.
‘Get your mates on their feet! Bite ’em, pour soup on ’em, kick ’em ’til they curse! We’re going ashore!’
The landing was dismal. The twenty-foot launch flipped in the breakers. Groping at the hull in the icy froth, Pazel watched their food parcels sink like stones. The next wave lifted him, thrashed him down, ground him between the boat’s gunnels and the sand. Pazel just waited; the sea shrugged the boat aside. When he stood the wind’s bite was colder than the sea’s.
They fought the vessel ashore, counting heads. Druffle, Darabik, Thasha, Neda, Neeps, Bolutu, Hercol, Kirishgan: no one was missing; everyone was bruised. Neda spat a mouthful of sand and blood; Neeps kicked the boat, then cursed and grabbed his foot. Darabik cursed with more flair and passion than Pazel had ever heard in an officer. It was his second dunking in a week.
Only Ramachni was dry: he had leaped from the boat in owl-form, glided to the beach, and resumed his normal shape. He watched their struggle from atop a warm-looking stone.
‘I did call for the forty-footer,’ he said.
‘Go to the Pits,’ said Thasha.
Hercol laughed aloud. ‘No harm in a brisk morning swim. But for the sake of our more delicate comrades we should get out of this wind.’
‘And across this mucking island,’ said Darabik. ‘Her Majesty’s council is surely already convened on the north shore. If you truly mean to attempt this lunacy involving Gurishal, you will need all the help we can provide.’ He shook his head. ‘Of course, it will not be enough.’
‘Walk now, and mope later,’ said Druffle. ‘Follow me, shipmates! Never mind your little bumps!’
His good spirits did not flag as he led them inland. He claimed to know Serpent’s Head — it was a famous stop for smugglers — but could that account for his glee? Now that Pazel thought about it, Druffle had been grinning since the rescue of Darabik’s men. Now he walked along laughing softly to himself, and making a happy buzzing sound in his throat.
It was an exhausting morning. Though not mountainous, this end of Serpent’s Head was mostly desolate, criss-crossed with dry rivers of lava twisting down like mammoth tree-roots from the heights. There were cracks and fissures and bare bulbous hills. Above them, the volcano moaned and hissed.
But the trees Pazel had seen were real too: they stood in clumps like islands in the dead landscape, oases spared by chance. There were young palms and rugged tree-ferns, vines and sprays of scarlet flowers, hummingbirds and ants. Pazel found them all the more lovely for their delicate, doomed courage. As for Mr Druffle, he ran up breathlessly to each oasis, studying the treetops. Each time this happened his smile faded, only to break out again as his eyes moved to the next clump of trees.
Thasha was questioning Darabik for the twentieth time about her father. ‘Yes, m’lady, I do expect him,’ said the commodore. He allowed himself a grudging smile. ‘Needless to say he won’t be expecting
‘Will he be coming ashore?’
‘Will he! I’d like to meet the man who could stop him! No, the admiral never waits for us to secure an island. With the deepest respect, Lady Thasha, your father is an impossible man.’
‘It runs in the family, Commodore,’ said Pazel, dodging Thasha’s fist.
For five hours they trudged and scrambled. When they grew thirsty Druffle showed them how to suck dew from the fern-fronds. There were no trails, but now and then they passed small mounds of clam shells. Druffle claimed they were trail markers, and over time he was proved correct: the mounds led them sensibly enough through the lava-maze.
‘I can hear the surf on the north shore,’ said Kirishgan. ‘When we pass over that next hill I think we shall see it.’
The hill in question was large and crowned with a particularly lovely stand of trees. They began to climb, drinking in the birdsong. Pazel turned and looked back to the south. He could see the coast in the distance, but not the
Suddenly Druffle exploded: ‘There! There! D’ye see it? Sweet teacups in heaven, my darlings! It’s honey!’
He dashed up the rest of the hill, and before anyone could stop him began to scale a palm. In his manic state he had found the agility of a young man, if not a monkey. Pazel shielded his eyes: near the fronds at the treetop, bees were boiling. The others saw them too, and they all shouted warnings. But Druffle paid no heed. Up the tree he went, straight to the hive, and when he reached it he plunged in his hand to the wrist. Drawing it out again, he held up a mass of something sticky and pale. He took a great bite of it and hooted with joy.
‘What did I tell you? Island honey! Straight from the fuzzy arses of the gentlest creatures in Rin’s green earth. Stingless bees! What do they need stingers for, eh?’
Pazel was laughing in spite of himself; most of the others were as well. ‘Blary lunatic,’ said Neeps.
‘Come and taste, come and taste! They don’t need stingers. No bears in the islands to steal
A sharp sound. Druffle’s back arched terribly. He fell forward, the honey-hand still raised, and as he dropped Pazel saw the arrow buried deep in his ribs.
‘Oh Gods, no!’
Pazel and Neeps raced up the hill, deaf to the shouts of those behind them. It occurred to Pazel that he might be running towards his death. He could not stop. Druffle, the hapless fool, lay writhing on the ground. The arrow had passed through him. It was holding his chest off the ground like a stilt.
As the boys reached the man, a dark-robed figure burst from the underbrush. Pazel saw the flash of the falling sword and tried to dive away. Too slow. This was death.
Steel met steel with a clang.
Hercol. He had stopped the killing blow with Ildraquin, and now he leaped and dealt the man a lashing kick to the chest. The dark-robed attacker was no clumsy fighter, however; he absorbed the blow and spun around to strike again, expertly, his sword making an arc for Hercol’s chest.
Once more Hercol was faster. Ildraquin flew up, inside the arc of the other weapon. Hercol’s sword barely slowed as it severed the man’s arm. Pazel did not see the downward stroke that followed. But he heard it, and saw the man fall headless to the ground.
The hilltop was suddenly swarming with men. Druffle wheezed. Blood was foaming about the wound: a pierced lung, Ignus would have said. Pazel pressed his hands about the wound, and Druffle raised a weak hand as if to help him. The honey-coated hand. A few harmless bees still crawled on his flesh.
Druffle lay still.
Pazel wondered at his own dry eyes. This man who had purchased him from slavers. Who had been a slave himself, to Arunis. Who had played the fiddle like an angel and swilled liquor like a fiend. Who had escaped all his tormentors, tasted sweetness one last time.
He looked up. No one was fighting. Sixty or more dark-robed fighters stood about them in a circle, swords pointing inwards. Men and women, with kohl dabbed on their cheekbones and tattoos on the backs of their necks. The Mzithrinis had been lying in wait.
The landing party was disarmed and made to kneel. Their hands were tied behind them, and their ankles bound fast. Six guards surrounded Neda, who was face down in the dirt, with a female soldier’s boot on her neck. The Mzithrinis retrieved the severed arm and head of the man Hercol had killed, washed them with oil and bore the corpse into the trees. Druffle’s body they left where it lay.
Pazel glanced around. Ramachni was nowhere to be seen.
