The Red Wolf Conspiracy (38 page)

“The Abduction was five hundred years ago,” said Dri. “The giants don't even remember it, and they consider our island a myth. It's
over.”

Talag looked at her with cold disdain. “It will be over when we are home,” he said. “Since the wreck of the
Maisa
only one ship remains that can take us there, across the Ruling Sea. Her name is
Chathrand
, and by the sweet star of Rin, I'll see that she does.”

Dri said nothing. A moment later the ship's bell rang half past eight.

“We must go,” said Talag.

Moving about in the daylight was, of course, the gravest danger for the ixchel, yet there was no other way to reach the spy-ledge. Like the hollow at the center of an old tree, their tunnel bored straight down through the compartment wall, then back toward the stern by way of a two-inch gap they had found by tapping. Near the end of this crawlway Talag had drawn an X in charcoal: that marked the spot directly beneath the binnacle, or ship's compass. Talag had plans for the binnacle, but he would tell no one what they amounted to.

The crawlway ended in a tiny crack, at the ceiling of a short passageway. From there all one had to do was scurry down the rough wood to the floor, run six feet along the passage to the foot-drain and dive inside. During a storm, a bathtub or two of rain and salt spray might blow into the passage each time a sailor came in from the topdeck. The foot-drain was merely the tin pipe that let such water flow back into the sea. It had a little spring-loaded lid that swung open with the weight of water and shut again to keep out the cold ocean wind. For the ixchel it was a simple matter to cut other holes in this pipe (along its top edge, to control any telltale dripping) and use it as a corridor between the decks.

The trouble was the battalion clerk. A pale boy with the scars of recent chicken pox on his face, he crouched on a stool by the door to Sergeant Drellarek's cabin from dawn to dusk, a big weather-stained notebook on his knees. His only functions were to carry messages from Drellarek to the
Chathrand's
officers and to keep records of the shifts and duties, the complaints and fevers and upset stomachs of the hundred soldiers under Drellarek's command.

The clerk was always there, except when running messages, and for five minutes at the change of the watch when Drellarek had him collect reports from the sergeants-at-arms and the sailmaster. Only at these times (and only if no one else was in the hall) could the ixchel come or go from their spy-ledge. Now was such a time, and Dri and Talag made haste to descend to the floor.

Even as they did so, Midryl, their replacement on watch, slipped out of the foot-drain and began climbing swiftly. When he reached the other two he paused for instructions.

“You will pay great attention to any new passengers who board today,” said Talag. “And make a note of who speaks to the captain, should he appear.”

“Yes, m'lord.”

“The ambassador may go ashore as well,” Dri added. “See that you notice who goes with him, and who returns.”

“Of course, m'lady.”

“The way is clear below?” Talag demanded.

“Safe and clear, Lord Talag. A rat limped by on the gun deck, nothing more. My brother Malyd is on watch.”

“Go swiftly, then.”

Midryl bowed his head and vanished into the crevice above. Dri and Talag reached the floor and hurried to the foot-drain. They could hear the voices of giants on the topdeck, the hiss of rain, the soggy, low-spirited gulls.

But the drain's lid would not open. Normally it swung with almost no effort at all, but though Dri and Talag pushed with all their might, it would not budge an inch.

“That fool!” Talag raged. “He's broken the hinge from the inside!”

Together they hurled themselves against the metal lid, but to no avail.

“We're trapped!” said Dri. “But what happened? How could this be an accident?”

“It was not an accident, Lady Dri,” said a voice from the foot-drain.

“Who goes there, damn it—a rat?” snarled Talag in disbelief.

“No, Lord Talag,” said the voice. “I am Felthrup Stargraven, and I must thank you for teaching me a great—nay, a vital—nay, an
indispensable
lesson! You see, I am not a rat. And yet I suffered so very long believing that I was. Believing, babbling, drowning in kelp—”

“Vermin!” shouted Talag. “Get your mange-rotted bodies out of our pipe!”

“I am quite alone, Lord Talag. I have jammed the door with a timber-screw.”

“Remove it now,” said Diadrelu quietly. “We are in danger, here.”

“I regret that, m'lady,” said Felthrup. “But surely you understand my own desperate circumstances? Once Lord Talag explained to me that I was not a rat, I realized it was madness—literally madness!—to go on pretending. The warren is no place of safety if you rouse the suspicion of Master Mugstur, as I have, or bear any disfigurement or sign of weakness, as I do. Are you aware of how you marked me, Lord Talag?”

Dri looked sharply at her brother. “You've spoken to this creature before!”

“Souls aflame!” shouted Talag. “It can't be that one! The same prattling, snooping rat we caught in Night Village?”

“The one who came looking for you,” said the voice, “in such terrible need. Poor, frightened Felthrup, always drowning, so close to despair. But not a rat, m'lord. Have you forgotten your lecture?
Rats do not think; they only appear to think
. But I most certainly think—deep, true, tireless thoughts, machinations, meditations, bursting rockets of the mind! Therefore, despite my appearance I cannot be a rat. I think.”

“You told me nothing of this,” said Dri to Talag.

“Of killing a rat? Why should I? There was no bloodshed, even. We sealed him up in a bilge-pipe to suffocate.”

“You see how I failed to oblige him, m'lady? I do so deeply regret it.”

Dri could not tell if the voice was laughing or crying. “We have no time for this,” she said. “What do you want?”

A sniffle. “You won't believe me,” said the voice.

“OPEN THIS DOOR ERE WE SLAUGHTER THE WHOLE FESTERING HORDE OF YOU!” bellowed Talag.

The laughter or tears grew nearly hysterical.

Dri hissed at her brother: “Haven't you done enough? It's your cruelty drove him to this act!”

Talag opened his mouth to speak, but did not. The human voices on the deck outside grew louder.

“You there, Felthrup!” said Dri. “A giant comes! Speak now, or we both must flee. What is it you would ask of us?”

“A small thing,” said the choking voice. “Your oath on the clan: not to hurt me, and to listen.”

“You have my oath on the clan,” said Dri.

“You cannot give your oath to a
rat
,” said Talag.

“I am
NOT A RAT!”

“Talag!” said Diadrelu. “Stop taunting him! Where is your wisdom gone? Speak your oath, quickly, or mount to the crevice! Decide!”

Talag's fists were clenched so tight that veins stood out on his hands. “You have my oath by clan and kin,” he said.

That very instant the outer door banged open and the pockmarked clerk appeared. At the same time they heard a scraping behind the foot-drain. The boy fumbled with the door in the slashing rain, still turned away from them. Talag pushed: the lid was free, and both ixchel dived into the pipe. Beside them, Felthrup let the lid snap shut. Brother and sister lay motionless where they fell, holding their breath. From inches away came the sound of the boy's heavy footfalls. He was swearing at the weather—Salvation!—for if he had just seen two crawlies he would have forgotten all about a little rain.

Quiet as shadows, the ixchel crawled down the pipe; Felthrup scurried behind them with a strange hopping sound. Only after fifty feet, where the pipe took a bend in a cable shaft far from human ears, did the odd threesome pause. They were as safe there as anywhere. Diadrelu struck a match and saw two black eyes gleaming next to her.

“But of course you're a rat,” she said.

Then she winced. The beast's left forepaw was hideously mangled. That explained the hopping. Felthrup saw her look and nodded.

“The price of living,” he said. “Four days I lay trapped in that pipe, m'lady. Clearing the dried blood with my teeth, so air might trickle in.”

“Your name,” said Diadrelu. “It sounds like a Noonfirth word.”

“How wise you are, Lady!” said Felthrup in delight. “For I am a Noonfirther, and the name I chose myself. The word means ‘tears.’ Do you know what a miracle tears are, Lord and Lady? Rats do not shed them: rats cannot grasp what they are for. And I was no different from any other beast in Pól Warren until the sunrise I tried to steal crumbs from a bakery. The fresh bread smelled so very tempting that morning, honeyed and butter-kissed—”

“Memories of the stomach,” said Talag. “Is
that
why you risked our deaths?”

“No, Lord Talag, but it is part of why you should not wish to kill me.”

“Tell your tale,” said Diadrelu. “But quickly, pray.”

Felthrup bowed. “It was still dark. By a broken window I leaped into the basement, then crept up the stairs and peeped into the bakery proper. There she stood! By the clay oven, her black face glowing by firelight. The first thing I saw was that she was alone. Always before her husband had worked beside her, but now he was gone. Why did I even notice? He had not taken the crumbs with him; there was plenty for me to eat. But somehow I could only stand there, watching, wondering. And the woman went into another room and returned with a painting of the two of them in wedding finery—how did I know, how?—and with a strange moan she threw the painting into the oven. Then she sat back on a stool. And cried!

“I saw her tears, cousins. And in that instant the great change occurred. I was shaken, terrified. I thought some parasite was erupting in my bowels. Yet it was not an affliction but a miracle: I had noticed tears. She was weeping for love and I understood it. And so much else, miracle after miracle! Her noise woke her little girls, they came thumping down from the loft—and suddenly, family! I grasped that, too! And names—she spoke their names, and I knew they were
permanent
names, not made up on the spot like
wart-face
and
slop-head
and other names used by rats. I sat there as the daylight grew, blind to my danger, hypnotized. She told them their father had run off with the butter-churn girl, and that they must all go to temple and pray that he quickly tired of that fat, faithless slut and came back to them. And then she pulled the picture from the oven and smothered the flames with her apron. But his head and feet were burned off already, and she cried to wake the dead.
And I understood it all!”

Dri looked at her brother. “Are you satisfied, Talag? The rat is clearly woken. You tried to kill an innocent, thinking soul.”

Talag looked away. “Next it will be fleas,” he said. “And then barnacles, cabbages, scraps of wood. This ship is infested with freaks. In all history there has never been a truly woken rat. How was I to know this babbling thing possessed reason?”

“By using your own.”

“We are fighting for our lives,” said Talag. “That creature was a danger to our fort in Night Village. Three times he blundered about us, drawing attention, speaking aloud. And so far I've heard nothing about why.”

Felthrup looked at Talag. His nose twitched.

“Oh good and gracious Lord!” he said. “How you always return me to my purpose! I bow, I sigh, I wheeze my gratitude! Will you forgive me if—just to make things simpler, marvelous Talag—I once again call myself a rat?”

“Get on with it!” spat Talag.

“Then, as a rat—as a
woken
rat—I must tell you that I am not quite alone.”

“What!” cried Dri. “Do you mean that there is
another
woken rat aboard?”

“Yes, m'lady, just one. The only one I have ever met. He rules the warren, and he is thoroughly evil and depraved. His name is Master Mugstur.”

“Have you spoken with this creature?”

“Yes, m'lady, but I did not let him know I was awake. He would certainly have killed me, for he wants no rivals.”

“What
does
he want?” said Talag.

“He wants to eat the captain.”

There was a rather long pause.

“Specifically his tongue,” Felthrup continued. “The reason is simple enough. After he woke, Master Mugstur became religious, you see. He is a quite fanatical adherent to the Rinfaith—although his version of it is somewhat … what is the word? Homicidal? Yes, exactly! Oh, Lady Dri, do you know how I have dreamed of such enlightened conversation? A rat would say
blary, bloody, munchy, delicious
—never
homicidal!
I am the luckiest being alive!”

“Felthrup,” said Dri.

“Yes, yes! Forgive me! The point is, Captain Rose has also declared himself a believer, but he is only pretending. He takes meals with Brother Bolutu and has the man set him lessons from the Ninety Rules, but he never studies them: the old witch Oggosk answers all the questions. He says he will retire to a life of quiet prayer on Rappopolni, when in fact the Emperor has already promised him governorship of the Quezans, and many slave-wives, and a royal title. This has infuriated Master Mugstur, who will allow no one to disrespect the faith.”

“Skies of Fire!” said Talag. “Rose is to govern the Quezans? He must be doing something unspeakable for the Crown!”

“We know he is,” said Dri. “But what does this Mugstur imagine he can do about it?”

“Eat his tongue,” said Felthrup. “It is his fate to kill Rose, he thinks. My miracle was tears; Master Mugstur's was betrayal. He watched a man selling Nunekkam emeralds to a jeweler. ‘These are splendid!’ said the jeweler. ‘How did you come by them?’ ‘Oh, the Nunek gave them to me!’ The other laughed. ‘He needed them sent to his granddaughter in Sorhn, as a wedding gift. It's been planned for three years, that wedding. And for three years I've made it a point to be that Nunek's best friend. So when I happened to tell him I was traveling to Sorhn on business, he asked me to deliver them to the bride. Said he would trust no one else, ha ha!’”

“Very rat-like,” said Talag.