The Night of the Swarm

My time has come; my inkwell runs dry. This hand is a paw once more. When I gnaw through the string that holds the quill in place, I will not be able to tie it again. The voyage of the Chathrand ends, and with it my voyage in human form.

I have shrunk, too: no longer can I reach the tower window. But the sounds from the courtyard reach me better than ever: the roar of the students (they have rallied to the Fulbreech Society), the shouts of the Academy Police, the clatter of hooves on the cobblestones, the murmur of the swelling mob. The Academy’s donors are here for their conference, and are witnessing the scene. I have caused a scandal. I have spent their money on something other than the greater glory of the Academy.

Here at last is the final sound: a battle on the staircase, harsh cries from the flikkermen, steel against steel. There are eight stone floors between us, yet. I cannot tell who is storming the tower: my allies, or the chancellor’s thugs? Are they coming to carry off my manuscript or consign it to the fire? Will history be rescued or erased this day?

Allies or enemies, they will find no mad professor here. Only his clothes, and his gold spectacles, and a black rat named Felthrup Stargraven. I see him now, his face reflected in the dish of water from which I drink. He has been swimming a long time. He has spent their gold on truth, to which no glory attaches, now or ever. He has tried to rescue the past as a gift to the future, and he only hopes the gift will suffice. Take it, Alifros. Call it my parting prayer.

Ah, but the battle is still raging, and the words still come. Let us play a game, shall we? Let us see how far I can get.

Epilogue

The Nighthawk could not enter the sound, now that the Arrowhead lay barely submerged across its mouth. But the following morning the rest of Maisa’s ragtag fleet caught up with her, and the smaller boats shuttled the survivors offshore. Admiral Isiq divided them according to his boats’ capacities, but he kept all those who had been closest to Thasha at his side. Thus what remained of the circle of friends stayed together, for a time.

Ramachni put two requests to the admiral. The first was that he extend his personal protection to the whole of Ixphir House, until their new leader, Lady Ensyl, decided where the most travelled clan in history might start anew. This Isiq granted gladly. ‘If they wish it, they may dwell in the vessels I command until we take back the Throne of Arqual, and beyond,’ he said.

The mage’s second request was that the mystery boy, who called himself Pazel Chadfallow, be kept aboard the Nighthawk as well.

‘Done,’ said Isiq. ‘What else?’ He would have given Ramachni the moon, in a saucer with caramel and cream. The mage had sworn to him that his daughter, though missing, was still very much alive.

‘But I am curious about your tarboy,’ he added. ‘Is he quite sane? He makes no serious claim to kinship with the late doctor, I hope?’

Not in my hearing,’ said Ramachni, with a voice that made it plain the matter was closed.

After a crossing of twenty days they touched ground on tiny Jitril. There they learned that the Defender of the Crownless Lands, King Oshiram of Simja, now commanded the largest surviving fleet in Northwest Alifros, for the simple reason that no large part of it had engaged hi battle after the Swarm spread its cloak. They learned too that the black cloud had swept some twelve battlefields clean, though none half so great as the ocean of slaughter at Serpent’s Head. It had also frozen much of the Northern harvest in the ground, and a hungry winter was expected. Above all, the people of Alifros had been frightened out of their minds.

The pious declared it heaven’s final warning. Practical men knew it was a chance to change the world. In twenty days, peace had replaced war as the fascination of princes, merchants, even generals, even priests. For some, this new passion was to become a sturdy faith. But others felt war’s charms returning even before the spring.

Maisa’s forces were made to wait at Jitril for a fortnight, until Oshiram himself gave leave for their passage through the Crownless Lands. Then the first separations occurred, with part of the little fleet heading east to Opalt, where rumours of a great new insurrection against Etherhorde had arisen, and others making south to Urnsfich, where the Mzithrinis were to be collected by their countrymen. The Nighthawk, however, headed north to Simja. There Oshiram heard their story and professed to believe it. He called them the saviours of Alifros, and promised that every refugee from the Chathrand would be granted sanctuary in Simja for as long as they needed it, and citizenship if they desired to stay.

But the king was a busy man, and his ministers took him at his word. Only recognised members of the Chathrand’s crew were extended this welcome. Others would have to apply like any normal refugee, and inhabit the barges set aside for them in the Bay of Simja until their appeals could be heard. Pazel took one look at those floating houses of misery and asked Ramachni to help him get across the Straits of Simja to Ormael.

‘I will do it, Pazel,’ said the mage, ‘but have you not heard what they are saying? Ormael may be free, but it is poor and ravaged; it changed hands five times during the war. And there is still fighting in all the lands surrounding the city. It could be a hard place, even for a native son. But how much simpler if you would tell your friends the truth! I would gladly help you explain.’

But Pazel could not bear the thought. He had spoken the truth to one of their number already: to Corporal Mandric, as it happened, just before the Turach left to join the Opalt campaign. Mandric had laughed at first, then grown cross, trying to find a flaw in Pazel’s story. At last he had become strangely meek and quiet, nodding at Pazel’s every word.

‘Do you believe me, then?’ Pazel asked.

‘Oh I do, lad, sure enough! You were with us, right? On that whole Rinforsaken expedition, ’course you were. I remember.’

‘You remember?’

‘Yes. No, I mean — no. I believe you, that’s it. Well, er, shipmate, goodbye.’

They shook hands awkwardly, and Mandric hurried off to take his leave of the others. Pazel saw then that he would never know if his friends believed or merely pitied him, if they were speaking from affection or fear.

So he refused. Ramachni sighed, and spoke again to the admiral, and in four days his passage was arranged. It was Neeps who brought the news, late one night as Pazel was stringing up his hammock on the Nighthawk.

‘Mystery boy. Roll up your things in that hammock and step lively. There’s a boat waiting for you.’

‘A boat? Whose boat?’

‘Just hurry, if you want to catch it. These louts are kind of impatient.’

It had never crossed his mind that he would leave this way, another mad scramble in the darkness, with his friends asleep in scattered beds across the city, and no chance to say goodbye. Not to his sister and Hercol, who were inseparable now. Not to Felthrup. Not to Fiffengurt. Not to Olik or Nolcindar or Bolutu, or the old admiral, father of the woman he loved. Not even to Ramachni, who would have known who stood before him, saying goodbye.

Neeps led him up the ladderway, with that half-awake stumble Pazel knew so well.

‘Hey, stop.’

Startled, Neeps looked back over his shoulder.

‘I need to ask you a question. About Marila. How did you. . come to be sure?’

‘Sure of what? That I loved her? That’s kind of a personal question, mate.’

‘Right,’ said Pazel, furious with himself. ‘Just forget it. I’m sorry.’

Neeps came back down the ladderway. ‘No, I’m sorry. You’re not much of a talker, and I reckon you wouldn’t ask unless it mattered a lot. You have a woman, then?’

Pazel just looked at him. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said at last.

‘Well that’s common enough.’ Neeps took a deep breath. ‘I was forced to dive once, into a shipwreck. We got into some trouble with sea-murths. The girls touch you, and suddenly you can breathe water. But the same spell