The Red Wolf Conspiracy (19 page)

Of course, private notebooks are forbidden. Every word becomes the property of the Chathrand Trading Family as soon as you commit it to paper. That is why I write only in bed, like a naughty schoolboy, & hide this journal in a secret place.

How surprised Rose would be to know I never wanted his post! Indeed that I should have left the sea for good last year, & married one sweet Annabel, & joined her father's little brewery on Hoopi Street, if criminals from the thrice-damned Mangel Beerworks had not burned it to the ground. Now to help that good family recover I shall be three more years at sea. By Rin, there's no evil like profit-lust. Anni's dad brewed good ales: that was his crime. On the best of days he could not have sold a tenth as much as those scheming barons of beer.

At least I can be glad of this mission—proud of it, indeed. Bless the Emperor! Bless whatever wise men there be among the Black Rags our enemies (though Rin & his Angel are unknown to them)! This great work of peace will outlast us all, & if I have children & grandchildren with dear Anni (it is not impossible yet; not in three years, even), they shall brag a little about their daddy's part. Bless Rose, too: the Emperor named him to this task, & I must trust his reasons.

Capt. Rose still frowns when he sees me. But I do not take his abuse to heart. In every task he seems twitchy & distracted, as if thinking of some immense & immediate problem, a sea full of icebergs, plague among the crew. How strange, all this worry & anger, when only yesterday he spoke of joining the Brotherhood of Serenity.

I do hope that man Bolutu can help him; otherwise our captain will have hard sailing toward his goal. For they say monks of the Brotherhood purge themselves of all low emotions: they do not fear, or lust, or even weep at a parent's death. Above all they do not hate. In truth I cannot think of a less probable personality than
Brother
Nilus Rose.

Until yesterday I might at least have called him fearless. But this morning a thing happened that I should not have believed if any man aboard swore it by the milk of the One Tree. I had just finished the survey of our new sailors & brought the results to the wardroom for Mr. Elkstem's inspection. When I arrived Elkstem was away, but Capt. Rose stood alone at the back of the chamber, against the bulkhead, with a clutch of maps under his arm & the oddest look on his face I ever saw in a ship's commander.

“Fiffengurt,” he said in a trembly voice, “come in here.”

I did so. In the center of the wardroom table, the Lady Oggosk's pet, Sniraga, crouched on another map, looking sleepy & pleased with herself. She is a rascal of a cat & will bite you if you stroke her, but at that moment she was all sweet cream & purrs. Rose, however, looked at her as if at a black ship closing fast with a deck full of buccaneers. He raised his hand & pointed at the animal.

“That devil!” he said. “I didn't see it come in!”

“Yes, Captain,” says I. “Cats are a race of sneaky-boots, all right. Quiet as you please.”

“It's blary well not quiet now! What's it saying, Fiffengurt?”

I own I gaped at my own captain.
“Saying
, sir? That's purring, that is. Cats do that when they're glad to see you, sir.”

“That damn bloodthirsty snaggle-fanged feline has no cause on earth to be glad to see me!” he roared. “Or to presume to use that tone, to threaten …”

His eyes had not moved from the red cat, who looked set to roll on her back & have her belly rubbed. I stood there like a mute. I knew that when the Capt. came to his senses he'd likely punish me just for witnessing him in this silly state. By Rin, it was weird! I didn't know what to say.

“Cats are curious, sir” was all I came up with.

“Get it out of here, Fiffengurt,” said Rose, who still had not moved an inch.

“Oppo, sir. Shall I ask Lady Oggosk to confine the pet to her cabin?”

“Just remove it—chase it—get it out of my sight!”

I poked the animal in the ribs. She hissed at me, but shot right out of the wardroom. Then Capt. Nilus Rose shook himself & looked around as if waking from a dream, & asked what the blazes I'd come for.

Thursday, 6 Vaqrin
. Not much time for you tonight, good journal! Four of the new tarboys will have to be jettisoned in Etherhorde: two brawling already over somebody's candy, one green with seasickness, the last wetting himself in his sleep like a babe, which cannot be tolerated where hammocks are slung one above the next.

So many errands in Etherhorde. We need new keys for the gate between the first-class compartments & the rest of the ship—the
Money Gate
, as my boys are already calling it. And we shall need a piano-mender: the daft steward in the first-class lounge unbolted the fixtures to wax the floor & did not think to secure them as we left port. Naturally the first big swell launched the old upright—& various tables, chairs & spittoons—across the boards like logs in a chute. The piano fetched over with a noise like Doomsday chimes. Hours I would have spent with Annabel will be lost to this foolishness, but first-class children must be free to scamper behind their gate without fear of riffraff, and first-class gents must have their dinner music.

Saturday, 8 Vagrin
. Glad I am to write these words. Etherhorde is in sight.

Battles with Smoke

9 Vaqrin 941

Pazel and Neeps raced headlong across the berth deck, leaping sea chests, dodging among hammocks, crates, scores of weary sailors. They had two hours' freedom this morning, after twelve in the dark and stinking hold, and they didn't intend to waste a second. The ship had docked at midday in Etherhorde, if the word from above could be trusted. Now confused rumors were passing from sailor to sailor, deck to deck. All Pazel could glean from their shouts was that something was happening aloft.

“They'll be bringing on that ambassador, I'll bet you,” huffed Neeps as they reached the midship ladderway. “That's why we finally got scrubbed—
deverminated
, I mean. That's why we're in our new clothes.”

They climbed, looking much alike now that their heads were shaven, and Neeps' turban confiscated. “Have you seen the ambassador's stateroom?” Pazel asked. “Dastu says it's really four rooms in one!”

“Five!” said Neeps. “I never told you, did I? Peytr snuck us in last night. There's the main room for sitting and eating and whatnot, with big paintings in gold frames, and a windup organ that plays three hundred songs, and leather padding on the walls to keep it warm. You can barely
hear
the sea, mate! Then there's a cabin for Isiq and his Lady, and another for the girl—they say she's pretty, you know—and a washroom big enough for a bull, and a last tiny room made of glass, hanging right over the waves in the stern galleries, with a bed tucked under the window for your afternoon nap.”

“Five rooms,” said Pazel, shaking his head. “What on earth could he do with so much space?”

Neeps said he had an idea what the ambassador might do, but he had no chance to elaborate, for at that moment a tremendous noise rent the air. It was not the trumpet-blast they had expected; in fact it was like nothing they had ever heard: a gigantic screech, such as a tormented child might make if it were the size of an elephant. For a moment every other voice on the
Chathrand
fell silent. Pazel and Neeps gaped at each other. Then they began to climb even faster.

As they neared the topdeck the shouting of the men resumed, louder and more alarmed than before. Finally Pazel thrust his head through the No. 4 hatch into dazzling afternoon sun.

What he saw took his breath away. The ship floated just a few yards from shore, berthed in a clearing between two forests of masts that curved away endlessly north and south. This was the Royal Esplanade, the astounding deepwater channel cut right to the foot of the Emperor's Plaza of the Palmeries, from which hundreds of docks spread in long seaward-stretching fingers. Crowded tight about each of these bobbed every conceivable sort of ship: fighters, fishing-rigs, port gunners, signal-ships, lead-bellied oreships, sleek Noonfirth Javelans with their gryphon's-head bows, Opaltine merchantmen like floating teakettles, grizzled
lunkets
, porcelain-domed Nunekkamers, whalers, kelp-cutters, sloops. Farthest of all, on a blue slice of Etherhorde Bay, Pazel saw Imperial warships at anchor, served by the steady, ant-like crawling of transports.

“Get out of the way!” Neeps whispered, shoving from below. “I can't see a thing!”

The boys scrambled onto the deck—and then the sound came again, huge and furious. Spinning about, they faced a scene of horror. Above a crowd of frightened men stood a monster in chains, a slouching giant with a yellow-brown hide like that of some weird rhinoceros. It had long warty ears, jaws that might have bitten a spar in two and arms the length of a man's body ending in hands like gnarled stumps. Those arms were chained at the wrists, and the chains held by ten sailors each. Nonetheless the creature had somehow got hold of a man.

It was Mr. Frix, the bald second mate, whom everyone called Firecracker Frix because he was terrified of thunder and explosions. He looked limp with fear. The monster, overpowering scores of burly sailors, lifted Frix to its own chest and pressed him there like a bunch of roses.

“Lord Rin Himself!” shouted Neeps. “They've dragged an augrong aboard!”

“What is it?” cried Pazel.

“Frix's death, that's what it is! Strongest blary things that ever walked, or lurched. From the Griib Desert, where the Death Tribes are. Pazel,
look!”

On shore, over another clump of frightened men, a second creature (somewhat shorter in the ears) was writhing in its chains. Its flat yellow eyes were locked on its companion. Who was in charge? Pazel looked this way and that, and finally saw Uskins and Fiffengurt upon the quarterdeck. They were arguing; Fiffengurt gestured and shook his head, as if trying desperately to talk Uskins out of his plans. But the first mate shoved him away. Leaning over the rail, he pointed down at the crew and bellowed:

“Draw pikes! Bindhammer, Fegin, Coote! Show that wretched monster he can behave or bleed!”

The pikes stood in racks near the mainmast. Sailors ran to obey Uskins' order, if only to put some distance between themselves and the augrong.

“What are they here for?” Pazel asked Neeps. “Are they slaves?”

“Nay, they're crew!” answered a voice at his shoulder. The boys turned to see Dastu, wild-eyed, standing behind them. “Anchor-lifters, them two,” said the elder tarboy. “Refeg and Rer—don't ask me which is which. But the old-timers say they can do the work of fifty men! Rose signed 'em on twelve years ago, when he last commanded
Chathrand
. Turns out they still live here, in a shack on the Oolmarsh. But the captain's gone to visit the Emperor, and Uskins is making a right bloody mess of things.”

“Are augrongs safe?” Pazel asked.

“Not on your life!” said Dastu. “But they're placid enough, or so Mr. Fiffengurt says, if you treat 'em right. Only one thing makes 'em mean: getting separated. Word is Refeg and Rer are brothers, and the last of their tribe this side of the Griib. They're scared to death of losin' each other for good!” He lowered his voice. “Don't you two repeat this, but Uskins told Rose he was an augrong expert. And what does he do? He has 'em brought aboard one at a time!”

On the quarterdeck, Uskins screamed at his men to hurry. Then, standing well back from the rail, he pointed at the long-eared creature on the deck.

“Quick!”
he cried.
“Baddy kill beast! You big fire, big fire dinner!”

Pazel knew at once that his Gift was at work. Uskins was trying to speak to the augrongs in their own tongue and botching it terribly. Nor could the magic in Pazel's head straighten out the mess: translated nonsense is still nonsense. The augrong cast a wild, confused eye in Uskins' direction. Then it turned Mr. Frix upside down and squeezed.

The sailors returned with pikes in hand, more thoughtful than when they had run away. When they pointed them at the augrong holding Frix, its companion gave a great twisting heave, scattering men like ninepins. The first creature answered with ferocious leaps and bellows. Mr. Frix, struck dumb by his predicament until then, began to howl for his life.

Uskins waved his arms and screamed:
“Dinner or kill? Why not? You kill, kill, kill!”

“Oh, sky!” said Pazel. “Be quiet, you fool!”

By the faces of the men he guessed that no one, least of all Uskins himself, knew what the first mate was shouting. The augrong knew, though, and looked ready to oblige. Mr. Frix began to wail like a man roasting on a fire.

Pazel knew what he had to do next—and before fear could stop him, he did it. Breaking the Rule of the Five Zones, he bounded up the ladder to the quarterdeck, darted right past Uskins (who was still shouting
“Kill!”)
, planted a foot on the rail and, with only an instant to wonder if Frix's life was worth losing his own for, jumped.

The height of the forecastle let him clear the heads of the sailors with ease. But he had forgotten the augrong's chains. Even as he leaped, the monster reared backward and the chain about its neck drew up tight as a bowstring. Pazel met it with his knees, spun helplessly in the air and landed with an agonizing thump on the augrong's foot.