The Night of the Swarm

Macadra stared at the throbbing black orb. Sandor Ott turned to Myett, spread his hands and smiled with what looked almost like beneficence. Myett scowled at him.

‘It wasn’t for you,’ she said.

‘You do not love me, then?’ said Sandor Ott. ‘Not even a little, after all this time?’

His smile widened into something unpleasant. But Myett stared him down. ‘Love,’ she said at last. ‘You shouldn’t be allowed to speak the word.’

She ran from the chamber. Ott started to follow, then paused and turned to face the cell with the corpse.

‘Thank you for the intelligence, Captain Kurlstaff. And my compliments to Rose, if you should see him. It seems his trinket was good luck after all. Madam-’

He bowed mockingly to the sorceress, then raced down the passage and through the Green Door, a free man and a patriot, without a moment to lose.

Macadra stood staring. The Nilstone felt heavy in her hand. She closed her fist about it, tightly, commanded it to obey her, to reveal all its secrets.

And it did. The black light went out. In her hand lay a small glass eyeball, a panther’s maybe, or a leopard’s. A folly. A trinket. Macadra hurled it away, flew at the door that had no lock, that did not open, that would never open again. The lamp grew dim. And as the darkness deepened, Macadra heard, very faintly, the laughter of invisible men.

36

The Wave

The disc of stars was shrinking.

Pazel gazed up at the twinkling lights and wanted to speak to them, to offer thanks, or perhaps farewell. The Swarm’s mouth was closing, converging on all sides towards a point somewhat inland from the Arrowhead Sound. It might, he reflected, be the last starlight his world would ever see.

The sound was only slightly wider than the gigantic rock that marked its entrance. At first the dry, eroding cliffs ran parallel; then they drew much closer together, and the sound become a flooded canyon, crooked and deep. Into this strange fjord they tacked, on two masts and tattered sails. Great black birds swept over them: vultures, probably, although it was too dark to be sure. Their flapping echoed morosely between the silent cliffs.

There was no wind to speak of. Pazel looked up at the limp canvas: it seemed almost a miracle that they could move at all. But they were moving, and rather smartly. Elkstem and Fegin manned the wheel together, sweating and scrambling. The lookouts strained their eyes for rocks.

After two miles, a long, grey beach appeared under the western cliffs. Pazel squinted, then felt nausea strike him like a blow to the face. The beach was strewn with bodies: dlomic bodies, and human. Nothing moved but the carrion-birds, hundreds strong and feasting. All over the Chathrand sailors made the sign of the Tree.

Prince Olik raised his hand and pointed: a stone staircase, also strewn with bodies, wound its way up the cliff and vanished into the hills.

‘The Death’s Head came this far, searching for you,’ he said, ‘and here some of my people tried to flee. A few escaped into Gurishal, but most were driven back to this shore by the Nessarim. Macadra did not discriminate between them: she launched a terrible glass cube over the beach. It exploded, filling the sky with needles, and everyone ashore fell dead. After this Macadra dared sail no farther, but turned her vessel back to the sea.’

‘Of course she did,’ said Fiffengurt, ‘and let me say this perfectly clearly: we won’t be able to turn back, if this canyon narrows any further. There’s depth here, I’ll grant you. But a ship needs seaway too. It’s blary suicidal to be squeezing her into this sort of crack.’

‘The only act of suicide would be to hesitate, Captain,’ said Hercol, ‘though it gives me no joy to say so. Could the tides offer us no hope of escape?’

‘The tides!’ Fiffengurt gave an appalled little laugh. ‘A tidal race would carry us out to sea again, to be sure. In bits and pieces, after the rocks and cliffs had finished with us. As for the keel — well now, the keel. .’

Fiffengurt let his voice trail off. Pazel knew he must be struggling to keep his mind on higher things, despite all his instincts as a mariner, and as a man who’d served the Chathrand most of his life. Suddenly Pazel wished he could put an arm around the man’s weary shoulders. What was it doing to him, to know that his ship’s long tale was ending?

Another mile, another silent beach. There were no bodies here, but as they glided past, Kirishgan’s sharp eyes caught sight of a small black animal. It was running alongside them in the surf, trying to keep up. ‘Arpathwin!’ he cried. ‘Hurry, change! Take owl-form and fly to us!’

The black mink did not change, and was soon falling behind. Fiffengurt called for shorter sails. But as the men furled canvas, his face grew puzzled. The Chathrand did not appear to be slowing.

Thasha looked at the others in alarm. ‘I don’t think he can change at all,’ she said. ‘I think his powers are gone.’

‘Then we will bring him ourselves!’ said Bolutu. ‘Come, Prince-’

Before they could dive, however, Niriviel leaped from the rail. ‘Stay, the bird is swifter,’ said Hercol, ‘and he has carried heavier loads than one exhausted mink.’

‘Undrabust, heave the blary log,’ said Fiffengurt. ‘I could swear we’re gaining speed.’

Neeps gathered the knotted rope and threw the weighted end into the sound. Moments later he had a reading: ‘Six knots, Captain.’

Fiffengurt tugged at his beard. ‘You there, aloft!’ he cried at last. ‘Strike the mains, and the topsails also. No, by the Tree, strike all the canvas. You heard me, lads: go to.’

There was not much canvas left to strike. In short order the two surviving masts stood naked. But the Chathrand plowed on, unchanged. Like a man in a dream, Fiffengurt walked to the rail, snatched off a midshipman’s hat and flung it overboard.

‘It’s just bobbing there on the surface,’ he declared. ‘There’s no current at all. Blue devils, what’s making us move?’

‘The cargo,’ said Marila.

Everyone started. ‘How do you figure?’ asked Neeps.

Marila looked at him. ‘The way most people do. You should try it.’ To the others, she said, ‘Look at Elkstem and Fegin.’

The two sailors were barely managing to control the wheel. They looked, Pazel had to admit, rather clumsy and inept.

‘They know how to sail,’ said Marila, ‘but we’re not sailing. I’ll bet you all the gold on this ship that if they dropped the wheel we’d spin around and float backward.’

‘The Nilstone,’ said Thasha, wonder in her voice. ‘It’s in my cabin, near the stern. Marila — you think it’s pulling us?’

‘Or pushing,’ said Marila, ‘as long those two can keep us from spinning around.’

The notion was, to say the least, disconcerting. Pazel could not dismiss it, however. Just hours ago, he and Neeps had wondered what might happen to the Nilstone as they neared their goal. If Marila was right they had their answer.

Niriviel returned bearing Ramachni, and Thasha ran to him and took him in her arms. Ramachni looked gaunt and haggard, and his fur was singed, but his black eyes gleamed even here in the darkness.

‘Gently!’ he said. ‘I am spent as you have never seen me, dearest.’ He looked over the ship. ‘You have roped off the forecastle: just as well. The poison there will linger a long time.’

‘Longer than this ship has to live,’ said Niriviel. ‘I will scout ahead.’

‘I would feel better if his master were still in a cage,’ said Bolutu, as the falcon climbed into the night.