The Red Wolf Conspiracy (28 page)

“Why are you so strange all of a sudden, Hercól?” said Thasha. “We should be deciding what to do about him.”

Hercól kept his eyes on Pazel for another long moment. Then at last his gaze softened and he sat up. “True enough,” he said. “Four hours of work you've missed. They know you're in here, of course, so we must invent a story to explain it. My suggestion is that we tell the truth: you have been entertaining us with your languages.”

“Languages!” said Thasha suddenly. “Pazel, tell me this, if you can: who or what is a
mighra cror?”

Pazel looked at her, startled anew. “Those are Mzithrini words, the first I've heard in five years. And they mean ‘red wolf.’”

“Red wolf?”

He nodded. “Where did you hear such a thing?”

“From a man who hid in our garden,” said Thasha. “Just before someone put an arrow in his heart.”

Hercól was looking from one to the other. “You are both quite sure?” he said softly. “Of what you heard, Thasha—and you, boy, of the meaning?”

They assured him they were.

“Does it mean something to
you
, Hercól?” Thasha asked.

“It may, and it may not. I know of just one red wolf. It was a magic statue or talisman of old, fashioned by Mzithrini alchemists from enchanted iron, fused with the blood of a living man. The stories all connect this Red Wolf with some great evil that plagued the Pentarchy a thousand years ago. And yet, strangely, the Five Kings' worst fear seemed to be that it might be stolen: they carved out a mountain citadel over Babqri and placed the Wolf at its center, guarded by walls and traps and
sfvantskor
warrior-priests. Why they should keep a thing of evil at the heart of their Empire I cannot guess. The tales, in any case, are half forgotten, in this age when east and west do not speak. What
is
certain is that the citadel, for all its protections, was destroyed at the end of the last war. The fate of the Red Wolf is anyone's guess. What a peculiar thing for that man to say.”

“In the middle of Etherhorde,” added Thasha, shaking her head. “In
Mzithrini.”

“Stranger still, he said it to
you,”
added Hercól. “The Treaty Bride, on the eve of her journey.”

She turned back to Pazel. “If you speak Mzithrini, that means you heard someone speak it once when your Gift was working, right?”

“Yes,” said Pazel. “The Mzithrin Kings had an envoy in Ormael, just like Arqual did. He had to leave when the troubles began, but in earlier days he and Dr. Chadfallow used to sit on our terrace and talk about peace—or argue about war.”

“But I thought your mother cast the spell while Chadfallow was back home in Etherhorde,” said Thasha.

“She did,” said Pazel. “But the Mzithrini envoy … well, he fell in love with my mother, and spent time with us right up until the Arqualis attacked. My mother didn't particularly like him, but he kept trying.
Especially
after Dr. Chadfallow left.”

“Ignus said she was a great beauty,” said Hercól.

Pazel dropped his eyes. “He proposed to her,” he said at last.

“Who?” asked Thasha. “The doctor or the Sizzy fellow?”

“Both,” said Pazel after a moment.

“Ah!”

“She was—she
is
beautiful,” Pazel went on. “And she did like Ignus. But I can't understand why she took so long to say no to the Mzithrini.”

“Just imagine!” laughed Thasha. “If she'd married him, you might have gone to live in Babqri City and learned the Casket Prayers, and had your neck tattooed with the name of his tribe, and learned how to ride a war elephant!”

“And found Captain Gregory,” said Hercól.

Pazel looked up at him sharply.

“Or if she'd married Chadfallow,” said Thasha, “he might have taken you to Etherhorde, and we'd have met years ago, and Hercól could have taught you
thojmélé
fighting, too. And you'd never have become a tarboy at all. You'd be Pazel Chadfallow, and you'd have been safe and sound in the doctor's house right through the Rescue of Ormael.”

“Rescue?”
said Pazel, turning on her in amazement. “The
Rescue of Ormael?
Do you people really call it that?”

“Well, yes,” she said, taken aback. “It was a rescue, wasn't it? Otherwise you'd have been killed by the Mzithrin Kings, all of you, and had your blood mixed with milk.”

“Come, Thasha, you know better,” said Hercól.

Thasha was by now quite red. “Do I? Prahba says it was only a matter of time before
someone
invaded Ormael. At least we didn't kill everyone.”

“You tried,” said Pazel.

“Mr. Pathkendle!” said Hercól.

“You killed half the men in the invasion—that's what it was, Thasha, an
invasion
—and enslaved the rest. You sold us boys to the mining companies, and our sisters to old fat men.”

“Nobody sold
you
to any mining company,” said Thasha, but she could no longer meet his eye.

“You burned the city to the ground!”

“She didn't,” said a voice behind them. “I did.”

Admiral Eberzam Isiq stood in the doorway, heavy and grim, a pale turquoise vein standing out on his bald head. No one had heard him approach.

“Who is this boy, who calls my daughter by her given name? Why is he in her cabin?”

“Sir,” said Hercól, bowing his head, “I do humbly beg your pardon. This is the tarboy you wished to congratulate, the tamer of the augrongs. I understood you were napping, and as we waited on your pleasure the boy revealed that he speaks the Mzithrini tongue.” He raised a book from Thasha's table. “I thought it worth putting to the test.”

“So this is Pathkendle!” boomed the ambassador. “Captain Gregory's boy! I didn't know him in that coat—but of course, it's the very coat I gave him, isn't it? Hmm! Now tell me, Pathkendle: what has happened to my doctor?”

“I … I've no idea, sir.”

“Chadfallow has vanished,” declared Isiq. “Normally he writes every week or two, but it has been almost six. His last letter said that he had booked passage on the
Eniel
to Sorrophran, where he was to board this ship. You served on the
Eniel
, I believe.”

He's sharp
, thought Pazel.
Who told him that?

“Did you see him, boy? Speak to him?”

Pazel nodded.

“Well, what did he say? Out with it!”

“We spoke about the
Chathrand
, sir,” said Pazel carefully. “And about the last war with the Mzithrin. Were you in that war, sir?”

“Of course. Continue.”

Pazel hesitated. Chadfallow had spoken to him in great secrecy. He and Isiq were old friends, and perhaps the doctor had hoped Pazel would pass on a message—but how could he be sure?

“He … hinted at things, Your Excellency. That the
Chathrand
is heading for the Mzithrin lands, for instance.”

“Well, so we are—to Simja, right on the border of their empire.”

“Excuse me, sir: not
close to
but
into
Mzithrini waters. That's what he meant, I think.”

Isiq looked sharply at Hercól, then back to Pazel. “You must have misheard.”

“Not him,” snarled Thasha. “Mr. Pathkendle has
very
sharp hearing.”

Isiq laughed aloud. “She's fond of you. Can't you tell?” Then, abruptly, he winced and raised his hands to his temples.

Thasha rushed to his side. “Prahba,” she said, clutching his arm. “Are they getting worse?”

“I'm quite all right,” he grumbled. “And when we land at Tressek Tarn I shall be better still.”

Pazel supposed Isiq meant to visit the famous mineral baths of Tressek Tarn; they were said to cure all manner of diseases. What was wrong with him, though? One could tell at a glance that he suffered from more than headaches.

Isiq smiled at his daughter. “Your hand is strong,” he said. “You'll represent our Empire well in this new age of peace. Now come here, Pathkendle. I have something to say.”

Pazel came forward uneasily, and the admiral rested a hand on his shoulder.

“We burned your city,” he said. “It was a terrible deed, and fate repays me in the same coin—I too am burning, with a brain fever that never quite subsides. But know this: my orders were far worse, not just to burn Ormael City but to flatten her, roll her founding-stone into the sea, fill her wells with corpses, plow her fields with salt. Our Emperor did not think we could hold Ormael, so far from the heart of Arqual, so close to the Mzithrin Kings. He wanted a wasteland, therefore: something no enemy could ever reclaim.

“I meant to give him his ruin. I sailed there with such purpose, believing the safety of Arqual depended on it. But when I arrived and saw proud young Ormael, beautiful as a Dlómic city out of legend, I could not.”

He paused, worrying his knuckles. Thasha looked at Pazel expectantly, and Pazel felt like bolting from the room. What did they want? To be thanked?

“Imagine if I had done nothing,” said Isiq at last. “Do you know what would have happened then? I should have been imprisoned, my consort given to another man, my daughter to Gods know whom. And your city would have bled all the same. Indeed, to see the job done His Supremacy would have sent one of his butchering Turach generals next. The best I could do was limit the damage and take Ormael for the Empire, alive but wounded.”

“The bodies piled in Darli Square didn't look
wounded
,” muttered Pazel.

“Silence!” barked Hercól, as Isiq's jaw dropped in amazement. Thasha's tutor leaped forward to catch Pazel by the arm. “Curb your tongue, rascal! Whom do you think you're speaking to? Your Excellency, a thousand pardons! I shall remove him immediately—or after his
humblest
apologies, if that is your wish.”

As Hercól fell silent, Pazel saw that the ambassador was furious: red-faced, mouth a-quiver. How long had it been since anyone dared contradict him? Backed against the wall, Thasha was staring at him, wide-eyed: for better or worse Pazel had impressed her again.

Isiq rubbed his temples with both hands. “I am more interested to know if the boy himself wishes to apologize,” he said.

Pazel looked at him in silence, remembering flies and the smell of blood. Hercól gave his arm a ferocious squeeze.

Still Pazel hesitated—and then it was too late. A door crashed open in the outer stateroom, a woman gasped and Syrarys was there, lovely and furious, eyes ablaze.

“What is this? Eberzam, you're shaking! You've exhausted yourself!”

“I'm fine,” said Isiq, but his voice rang suddenly weaker. “Syrarys, where have you been?”

“Making arrangements for your baths at Tressek. Sit down! Oh, Hercól, what have you done? Get that wretched boy out of here!”

“I invited him,” said Thasha. “And he's no more wretched than you.”

The consort turned her a scalding look. “Haven't you done enough? Will you only be satisfied when your father collapses? Hercól, take him
away!”

Hercól bowed and tugged Pazel roughly from the cabin. Pazel had only a fleeting impression of the outer stateroom: an immense, glittering chamber, someone's greatcoat tossed casually over a blue divan, a pair of crossed swords mounted on the wall, red ribbons wound about their sheaths. As the door closed he turned and glanced back at Thasha. Her eyes were on him still.

“Splendid work,” said Hercól furiously. “In ten minutes you managed to make Thasha cry, her father hate you and her tutor seem a colossal fool.”

“I'm sorry,” Pazel said, “but you don't know what it was like.”

“Nor do you know my life's tragedies, nor hers, nor those of hundreds on this ship! Does that make your outburst any wiser? It is not a question of feelings but of self-control!”

“So I should have lied to him? Or acted grateful?”

“You should have held your tongue. Think, boy! Your father has become a Mzithrini! If anyone can help you rejoin him it will be Eberzam Isiq.”

Pazel started. Rejoin his father! It had never seemed remotely possible. But if peace took hold between the empires, almost
anything
could happen. And even though his father had not wanted it, Pazel did know a bit about sailing now. Wild hopes began to swirl in his head.

They crossed the gun deck, heading forward. Sailors muttered as they passed:
“That's him, that crazy
Muketch.
Talks like a ghost's in his guts.”

“Will the baths help Thasha's father?” Pazel asked Hercól.

Hercól looked grave. “Who can tell? His illness is most peculiar; it is a bad time to be without Ignus Chadfallow. Now then: if anyone asks, you were helping Thasha practice her Mzithrini vows. And if you can keep out of trouble for a few days, I
might
be able to make truth of that little lie—that is, to arrange for you to be Thasha's language tutor. Of course, that would mean spending an hour or two with her every day.”

Pazel stopped in his tracks.

“What is the matter?” said Hercól. “You do not wish it?”

Pazel's first thought was
Of course not!
But something made him hold his tongue. He thought again of how she'd looked at him from atop the carriage in Etherhorde, felt again her hand on his arm.
She stood up for me in front of Syrarys. Why?

“Rose won't give me time off to be a teacher,” he said.

“He might if your bond debt were paid,” said Hercól.

Pazel gaped at him. “Would you do that for me? Really?”

Hercol laughed. “I would do so for every bonded servant in Arqual, if I could. Unfortunately the gold to my name would scarcely buy the two of us a good meal in Tressek Tarn. No, if you're to teach his daughter it will be the ambassador who buys your freedom. We've spoken of it already. Use your head, Pazel, and don't insult those who stand ready to help you. Hallo there, Mr. Fiffengurt! I dare say you're looking for this lad.”

Night Village