The Night of the Swarm

Isiq started. ‘There was such an attack. Oshiram spoke of the Rajna; he said her sinking was the talk of the island.’

‘And well beyond. The real Vancz died, but they’re not to know that.’

‘Who was he?’

‘No one important. That’s the beauty of it, you see?’

A great volley of explosions shook the Dancer. This time Isiq heard the distant screams that followed. ‘I do not see, Pathkendle. How will all these shenanigans get you past the fighting?’

‘No time to go into it. Just lie still and keep quiet, and remember that you’re supposed to be at death’s door. This will all be over soon.’

He turned on his heel to go, then looked back sharply at Isiq. ‘And show Tull a little courtesy, won’t you? He’s good at what he does.’

The door closed. Isiq lay still, feeling his age, listening to Gregory bellow: Strike the mains, all hands assemble, no arms on your person if you please. Flies buzzed his ears. Suthinia opened the door and looked at him, amused. Then the smell of the place hit her; she gagged and fled. Isiq’s face burned. He felt as though she’d caught him at something naughty.

Not long thereafter Tull rushed in with a handbag, wearing some sort of gown, and proceeded to sit beside the bed with his eyes closed.

‘What in the nine putrid Pits-’

‘Hush,’ said Tull, swaying slightly.

‘Is that blary perfume?’

‘Burn ointment. For your leg, old fool. Now don’t distract me — I’m in character, like. Also, they’re here.’

It wasn’t a gown; it was a surgical bib, and the bag was a doctor’s. The man had removed his earrings, too. I’m out of my depth, thought Isiq.

His countrymen were abusive when they drew alongside the Dancer. They howled at Gregory: did he know how mucking fortunate he was they hadn’t blown his hull out from under him?

‘When Arqual tells you to strike sail, you strike it, dog! What were you blary thinking?’

Isiq did not catch Gregory’s answer, but the Arquali reaction was plain.

‘The commodore? You lying, pig-faced, dung-eating smuggler! Take this boat, Sergeant! You curs get down on your knees. Now, damn you, or we’ll shorten your legs with our broadswords.’

A great thumping and swearing followed. Men were leaping aboard the Dancer, the ladderways thundered with boots. The door flew open, and an armoured Turach stood there, dagger drawn. He screamed at Tull to get above with the other sailors.

‘My patient’s dying,’ said Tull.

Holding his breath, the marine plunged into the sickbay and dragged Tull out by the collar. ‘Lie still, Vancz!’ Tull cried as he went.

The next time the door opened it was Gregory and the Arquali captain himself: as young as he’d sounded, and as fierce. ‘Gods of death, is that man even breathing?’

‘Not for long,’ said Gregory. ‘I told you there was no time to waste. Darabik will skin us both if-’

Despite himself, Isiq twitched. Darabik? Purston Darabik? He started to rise, then checked himself and fell back.

‘There, you see?’ cried Gregory, making the best of Isiq’s blunder.

‘I see a half-corpse who knows the commodore’s name,’ said the Arquali. ‘We’ll need more proof than that, dog. Get me the letter you spoke of.’

Mr Tull wormed back into the chamber. He reached into Isiq’s bloody coat and removed an envelope. He held it up before the others. ‘Sir, he’s very poorly, very weak. I’ve done what I can, but that leg-’

Heavy fire, and a cry from the Arquali vessel. The captain snatched the envelope and tore it open. He glanced from the letter to Isiq and back again. Then he stormed out, with Gregory on his heels. Tull leaned close to Isiq’s ear and whispered, ‘You scared me silly. I thought you were going to get up and dance.’

He might have, too. Purston Darabik. Purcy! Was he commanding the squadron? They were old mates, same year at the Academy; Isiq had even courted one of his sisters before Clorisuela entered his life. So had half the navy, went the joke. Darabik was one of nine children; the other eight were girls.

There was a great deal more shouting, over the endless bombardment. The Arquali captain returned and asked if the patient could be moved. ‘Are ye trying to be funny?’ said Tull. ‘The man is gangrenous. He nearly bled to death on the Rajna, he’s burned, his spleens are granulated; he’s half delirious with pain. Move him! You might as well just stick him a few times and be done with it, you nasty-’

The commander slammed the door. Tull and Isiq sat rigid, listening. But they did not have to wait long for the orders to start to fly: Get up! Get this garbage scow underway! And stay in our lee, good and close, or we’ll put more holes in you than a blary bassoon — if the Mzithrinis don’t do it for us.

Isiq turned his bandaged head. ‘Spleens?’

‘Everyone’s a critic,’ muttered Tull.

They were underway again. The blasting of the cannon grew almost intolerably loud, and now the screech of flying ordnance reached their ears as well. He could smell the powder-smoke. From the topdeck, Suthinia cried out at something she saw. Vividly he imagined his arms about her, protective; then the image changed to her clawing at his eyes. To fall for a witch: Rin forbid. She might end up like Lady Oggosk, a mad crone in bad lipstick and jewels.

The flies lifted with each explosion. Tull mumbled about his ‘life as an actor’. Isiq reflected that it might do them no good whatsoever to find Darabik. His old mate was an Imperial officer at war. He, Isiq, was simply a mutineer, an enemy of Magad V, the man on the Ametrine Throne.

Eventually he realised that the battle noise had peaked and begun to fade. He waited; other Arqualis were hailing the brig, scandalised and doubtful: ‘You have the commodore’s what?’

At last the Dancer slowed, and a great shadow darkened the skylight. Isiq heard the groan of huge timbers, the voices of sailors two hundred feet overhead. They were alongside one of the warships, perhaps the Nighthawk itself. He heard the faint rattle of davit chains as a small craft was set afloat.

‘Concentrate,’ whispered Tull.

A new set of Turachs stormed through the Dancer. Gregory was questioned, insulted, abused; Tull was frisked, even Isiq was briefly inspected. ‘You’re Vancz?’ He answered with a croak. A soldier began to pluck at his bandages, and Tull flew into a convincing rage. Then a voice Isiq knew well — velvety, but somehow no less dangerous for that — spoke a single word, and the Turachs straightened and marched out. They thumped their spears in the passage, a formal salute. The door opened, and Purston Darabik stepped into the room.

Isiq did not breathe. The commodore was his own age exactly, but look at him: old, severe, impossibly eminent and grey. He flicked a hand at Tull. Wordlessly, the smuggler fled the room, and Darabik closed the door behind him. His turquoise eyes drilled into Isiq, and there was no doubt whatsoever. He was not deceived by Gregory’s flimflam, nor the false leg, nor the room’s withering stench. He knew who lay before him. His hand rested on his sword.

They had not always been friends. As boys in Etherhorde they had built rival forts in Gallows Park, and the raids with slingshots and clods of mud had been fierce, until they’d united against a larger gang from Hurlix Street. At the Academy, when Darabik learned that Isiq was courting his sister, he’d taken his prospective brother-in-law out for a brandy. ‘Take your time with the decision,’ he’d said, ‘but if you wound her honour I’ll knock your teeth out the back of your skull.’

Darabik crossed and uncrossed his arms. His eyes grew thoughtful; he rubbed his face. ‘Oh,’ he said, rather loudly. ‘Oh, Vancz, dear fellow. So be it, if that is truly what you want.’

Then, as Isiq lay dumbfounded, the commodore knelt beside the bed. His face had changed; a new light gleamed in the bright blue eyes. Leaning very close to Isiq’s ear, he whispered, ‘Admiral Isiq. You’re a blary magician. You’re alive.’

‘Purcy.’