The Night of the Swarm

Now, as the little two-master picked up speed, Isiq looked across the water at the low hill where the shrine had stood. The work was finished, the shrine was gone; even the jade dome with its silver inscriptions had been given to the waves. Once defiled, for ever unclean. . can we ever hope to understand the Western mind? And without understanding, is there any hope of sharing Alifros in peace?

More cannon-fire, distant but steady. Isiq sat down against the wall of the quarterdeck, watching the young men scramble. No work for him now, except to stay out of their way. He stretched out his legs, rubbed the knee he’d wrenched during his escape from Simjalla Palace. The witch had touched him there, and the pain had lessened instantly, but now-

‘Legs in!’ barked Gregory, storming by. ‘Damned if the old man’s not a menace!’

Isiq folded his legs. Pazel’s father is a right bastard offshore. And just as well, just as well. Isiq would stand for any badgering, so long as men did their job. It was sloth and lies and clumsiness that could doom them, and those he would never tolerate in anyone again.

Of course he had no authority on this smuggler’s boat. But he had power. He looked at his feeble, mutinous hands. How fast it had come back: the power, the certainty of strength. The knowledge that he had one fight left in him, and that its outcome would determine the worth of his whole life.

All thanks to the witch and her astonishing news. Thasha is alive. On the far side of the Ruling Sea, and in danger — but alive, and trying to return. Pazel still with her, and Neeps Undrabust, and thank the good Lord Rin, Hercol. If anyone could protect her it was Hercol. And yet the witch appeared to believe that Thasha herself would decide the battle ahead, and who was Isiq to say that she was wrong? Thasha feigned death on Treaty Day. She fooled the sorcerer, fooled Sandor Ott. My blessed, brilliant girl.

But — a mage? A spell-weaver like Suthinia? The witch herself had said no, not like her. ‘Thasha’s power is unfathomable. Think of me as a little trembling flame, your daughter as a wildfire roaring on a hill. If only she has unlocked that power. If only she’s found the key.’

Slam, slam. Heavy guns, close action. Isiq heaved to his feet and gazed north, wishing his eyes could pierce the headland. On the other side of it men were dying, their bodies scorched or shattered. Isiq felt cold in his heart. The Third Sea War. Men were already calling it that. After soldiering away his life he’d turned to diplomacy, to peacemaking, his goal to prevent the ‘Third Sea War’ from ever becoming an entry in the history books to come. And here it was, breaking out around him.

No matter. It would not be like the other two. There would be no illusions, no despised Sizzy horde, no blameless Arqualis, no songs about the Blessed and the Damned. If he had his way, there would only be accounts of its brevity: the war that endured just a month, just that last sad week of winter — and many longer chapters on the peace that followed, Alifros renewed and hopeful, a spring rebirth.

For the witch had told him of a second miracle: the miracle of Maisa, Empress Maisa, rightful ruler of Arqual, the one to whom he’d sworn his oath. The one whose own nephew, the usurper Magad V, had vilified her and driven her into exile. An old woman the world had left for dead.

He had thought her dead too, and told them so. Gregory had laughed and pulled at his pipe. ‘You come with us, Isiq. You’ll see how dead she is.’

The witch had turned her eyes on him fiercely. ‘It was convenient, wasn’t it? To assume she’d died. Better to justify serving her pig nephew all these years.’

‘Things were never so simple,’ he’d objected. ‘Arqual needed a monarch; we had nearly lost the war. And we were told horrid things about Maisa. That she’d looted the treasury, corrupted children, taken flikkermen to bed. I was just a captain, then. It was decades before I caught a whiff of the truth.’

The witch had glowered at him. ‘Explain it to your Empress,’ she’d said.

The giant lumbered up to Isiq and held out a hand. Despite his pale hair he was not more than thirty, and probably younger. ‘We’re coming into the Straits of Simja,’ he said. ‘You’ll want to see, won’t you, Vurum?’

Isiq grasped the hand, and the giant raised him effortlessly. Vurum, Grandfather: the huge fellow had taken a liking to him.

The explosions quickened further. Isiq heard the giant muttering beneath his breath: ‘Fear rots the soul and gives nothing, but wisdom can save me from all harm. Fear rots the soul and gives nothing, but wisdom. . ’

The Seventh Rule of the Rinfaith. The man was trembling. Isiq reached up and seized his elbow.

‘Tell me the rest of the Rule.’

The giant stammered. ‘I shall. . I shall cast off the first for the second, and guard the sanctity of the mind.’

Isiq nodded. ‘Keep a clear head, and listen to your captain. When the time comes you’ll do him proud.’

‘Oppo, Vurum.’ The giant managed a shaky grin.

‘Where’s your sword, lad?’

‘Belowdecks, like everyone else’s. The captain doesn’t want us armed yet. We’re not supposed to look dangerous.’

‘In that case you’d better go about on your knees.’

This time the grin was wider.

At the bows Gregory stood beside the witch — shoulder to shoulder, husband and wife. Both swore it was over, a marriage doomed from the start and ended wisely, decisively, when Gregory ran off into the shadow-world of the freebooters, the smugglers of the Crownless Lands.

Pazel’s mother. And the love of Ignus Chadfallow’s life. Isiq had seen her that first night, outside her little house in Simjalla, but this was his first glimpse of her by daylight. She was tall and slender. Despite the chill her sea-cloak was thrown open, and her long black hair blew free in the wind. Isiq found himself longing to seize handfuls of that hair, to run his dry fingers through it, to hold it against his face. She was still lovely, and must have been heart-troubling in her youth. You’re an imbecile, Gregory. Whatever riches the man had earned, whatever freedom, whatever wild couplings with pirate girls or harlots on Fuln — he had walked away from that.

She turned and caught him staring. ‘M’lady,’ he said awkwardly, with a slight bow.

‘Murderer,’ replied Suthinia Pathkendle.

‘She’s startin’ to like you, Isiq,’ muttered Gregory, his telescope raised. ‘That’s more or less how she used to greet me, when I came home from abroad.’

‘When you came home,’ said Suthinia.

‘Every night or two I say a little prayer for Neda,’ Gregory continued. ‘The fates got it backwards with that girl — gave her my looks and Suthinia’s lovely disposition.’

‘And Pazel?’ asked Isiq. ‘Do you say no prayers for your son?’

Gregory and Suthinia both visibly stiffened. ‘Pazel’s never forgotten,’ said the captain, as Suthinia gazed hard at the sea.

Isiq too averted his eyes. It’s true then. Pazel is Chadfallow’s boy, not Gregory’s at all. The doctor had been in love with Suthinia Pathkendle all the years Isiq had known him. And he had been stationed in Ormael in the twenties, hadn’t he? Just when the witch must have conceived. Isiq stole another glance at the two of them. Watch your mouth, old fool.

‘She spies on their dreams, you know,’ said Gregory, earning a look of rage from his wife.

‘I did not know,’ said Isiq.

‘Oh yes,’ said the captain. ‘She has two vials of dream-essence, whatever that is, and when she warms them against the side of her face she can tell what they’re dreaming. She even entered one of Pazel’s dreams, and talked to him at some length. But it made his fits worse, and she had to promise not to do it any more.’

‘It’s none of his business, Gregory!’ hissed Suthinia.

‘She might still be able to speak with Neda — but then Neda’s gone and become a crazy priestess, and it mustn’t look good for a crazy priestess to have a witch for a mum. But Suthee looks and listens all the same. Because who knows? Maybe their dreams can give us some idea of where they’ve all washed up, and what they’re facing. Last night, for instance, she saw them floating down a river on a giant cow’s stomach — inflated, you understand — and doing battle with a — Pitfire!’

They had just cleared the headland, and there beyond it was war. Enormous, horrific. A great line of Arquali