The Red Wolf Conspiracy (63 page)

Three cannon gave three deafening, ear-wounding roars. Pazel looked: two shots fell wildly long of the boat. The third fell close enough to set it rocking, but no more.

Then the water-weird struck the gunports a sideways blast—and every man aboard realized what it could do. Not sink, but disarm them—for how could cannons fire if every fuse was soaked?

Suddenly Pazel remembered his rendezvous with Thasha. He spun about and rushed for the hatch—and nearly barreled into Jervik, who stood blocking his way.

“Pazel!” said the big tarboy. Still struggling to be friendly—or at least nonhostile.

“What is it?”

Jervik glanced in the direction of the lifeboat. “He's an Ormali same as you, right?”

“Druffle? That's what he told me. Listen, I really have to—”

“Then you can wish away his hex.”

“What?”

“His hex. His spell on the wind. It's
muketch
magic, ain't it?”

Pazel just looked at him. The boy was perfectly serious.

“Jervik,” said Pazel carefully, “the man rowing that boat isn't doing the magic. And I don't know any spells,
muketch
or otherwise.”

From the older boy's face it was clear he didn't believe a word. Or didn't wish to. Then, to Pazel's amazement, Jervik slipped the brass Citizenship Ring from his finger and held it up.

“Yours,” he said, “if you'll just do as I'm askin'.”

“But I don't know any magic.”

“Come off it,” said Jervik. “All those talks with that mink-mage-thing? That Ramachni fellow? Yeah, I know about 'em!” He looked a little sheepish, suddenly. “There's speaking-tubes all over this ship. You can
listen
at 'em, too. Swellows made me do it.”

I'll bet you volunteered
, thought Pazel. But there was no point in denial now “I've learned a few things from Ramachni, that's true. And they might even help us, if you'll just—”

Jervik pawed at him. “Do it now! Wish his spell away!”

“Let me go,” said Pazel, his voice hardening. “Before it's too late.”

But Jervik was too frightened to hear. His bullying instincts returned with a vengeance: he seized Pazel by the arms and shook him. “Wish it away! You're the only one who can!”

I'm going to have to fight this idiot
, thought Pazel. And feeling the immense strength in Jervik's arms he knew he couldn't win.

But suddenly the big tarboy screamed in pain. His leg lashed out, and something small and black struck the open hatch-cover with a thump, then fell senseless through the opening below.

“Bit me!” howled Jervik, releasing Pazel and clutching his ankle. “That damn blary rat!”

Felthrup!

Blood covered Jervik's hands. Pazel threw himself down the ladder, fearing the worst. There lay the short-tailed rat: barely able to raise his head. Was that Jervik's blood alone? Pazel couldn't stop to find out. He scooped up the lame creature and made a dash for Thasha's stateroom. Men stared at him: other boys were running with gunpowder and cannonballs. He was bearing a rat.

Thasha waited in her doorway. “Felthrup!” she cried. “What's happened to you?”

“M'lady—” squeaked the rat.

“Hush!” said Pazel. “Just rest! You're a hero already.”

They laid Felthrup on Thasha's pillow. His breathing was shallow, and he blinked as though his eyes could not focus.

“Leave me,” he said. “Do what you came to do.”

As Pazel tried to make Felthrup more comfortable, Thasha turned to her clock. Around and around she spun the hands. “If he's not in his Observatory, we're done for,” she said.

“Just hurry,” said Pazel.

When the clock read nine minutes past seven, she stopped. “We have to wait three minutes,” she said. “That's just how it works.”

They were the longest three minutes Pazel had ever known. Above them, Uskins was shouting, “Fire! Fire!” But not a cannon sounded: the water-weird still lashed at the gunports. Suddenly Thasha gave his hand a fond squeeze. Pazel squeezed back, but as he did so he felt a certain unpleasant tightness in his chest.

When the minute hand moved for a third time, Thasha bent down and whispered: “Ramachni!” The clock sprang open with a snap.

There was a whirl of black fur. Almost before they saw him, Ramachni had bounded onto Thasha's bed. Gently, the mink licked the black rat's forehead. Felthrup gave a whistling sigh.

“He will sleep now,” said Ramachni. “But we must make haste.”

“You knew we were coming?”

“Oh no, dear girl! But I certainly hoped. Whole days have I waited at my desk. And I have certain tools for doing more than just waiting. Listen carefully, please: neither of you have ever faced a danger like the one trying to board this ship. We must work together or be swept away.”

Thasha put her shawl over the clock. “It's Arunis under that canvas, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

“Can you beat him?” Pazel asked.

“Not in this world, where I am but a shadow of myself,” said Ramachni. “But
we
can beat him. Thasha, you will be called on to show great courage, and great self-control. Pazel, you will have but one chance to speak a Master-Word. As you know, you will forget it the instant you speak, and nevermore hear it in your lifetime. You must choose well.”

Pazel looked into Ramachni's bottomless black eyes. A word that tamed fire and a word that made stone of living flesh and a word that blinded to give new sight. The simplest Master-Words of all, the least dangerous. But if he chose wrong, Arunis and the Shaggat would win, and nothing would stop the war.

“Why can't you just
tell
me which Word to use?” he begged.

“For the simplest of reasons,” said Ramachni. “Because I don't know. But remember this, both of you. We are not fighting Arunis and his beast alone. We are fighting an Empire. Sandor Ott is defeated—perhaps. But many hands are yet turning the wheel he set in motion.”

At that moment they heard feet running in the outer stateroom. Thasha's door flew open and Hercól stood there, breathing hard, his sword naked in his hand.

“Ramachni,” he said. “The hour is come.”

Dollywilliams Druffle stopped his rowing. The little dog wagged its tail. The lifeboat had come within thirty feet of the
Chathrand
. Beside the motionless behemoth it was little more than a bobbing cork. A hideous smell rose from it, as of sun-rotted meat.

The water-weird still shimmered against the gunports, a moist cloud shaped like a man. Otherwise the sea lay as if dead. No wave nor puff of wind could be felt. High overhead clouds were racing, but they might have belonged to another world. Here nothing moved but the gulls.

“You there, smuggler!” cried Rose suddenly, leaning down from the rail. “Get hence with that corpse! Release this ship! You're in the Straits of Simja, no great distance from either shore. We'll lower you a mast and sailcloth, if you need them. You can sail where you like.”

Druffle said nothing. His back was still to the
Chathrand
.

“Do you think that rain-fairy is going to scare us? By the Pits, I'll see those gulls glut on your entrails before I let you touch my ship!”

He stormed down the ladder and into the wheelhouse. A moment later he emerged with an immense harpoon. Raising the weapon to his shoulder, he closed one eye and rushed the rail with the force of a buffalo. The harpoon sailed straight through the water-weird and right for Druffle's neck. The freebooter never saw it coming.

But at the last second, like a dark flame, a figure leaped up from beneath the cloth, knocking Druffle sideways. For an instant it looked as if the harpoon had pierced them both. Yet there it quivered in the boat's hull, and neither man had been slain.

“It's the soap man!” blurted Uskins.

Looking steadily up at the
Chathrand
, Arunis slowly pulled his old scarf from about his neck. A small red spot stained the white cloth. He bent and wiped it on the canvas, which still appeared to be covering something rather large, and wound it about his throat once more.

“You're a good shot,” he said. “But the day may come, Captain Rose, when you regret lifting your hand against me. Or even against my servant. Not that Mr. Druffle is particularly vital to my purposes. He
was
, of course—when I needed divers, he was so important that I gave him the same power over others that I have over him. You enjoyed that, didn't you, Druffle?”

Druffle gave a puppet's nod.

“But that time is past. Drop a ladder, why don't you, and let us board. We are thirsty.”

“Never,” said Rose.

“I shall board one way or another, you know.”

Sergeant Drellarek lowered his sword to point down at the boat. “Hear me, mage or mystic, or whoever you are,” he shouted. “We are on a mission consecrated by His Supremacy, Magad the Fifth. You have nothing to do with that mission, and may not interfere.”

“Such discourtesy, Sergeant,” said the sorcerer. “And here I stand ready to assist your cause to a degree you can scarce imagine.”

“This ship is the grave of sorcerers,” said Lady Oggosk suddenly. “All die who seek to use her for their wickedness. It will curse you too, Arunis. Go back!”

Arunis smiled. “The Great Ship curses those who are not great. It was built for the likes of us. But why should we argue? Our mission is the same: to return the Shaggat Ness to his worshippers on Gurishal. To urge him to war. To see the Mzithrin Kings hurled from their thrones and their power ended in this world. And I have done much for you already, Captain Rose. Each morning, as timid Mr. Ket, I wove the spell that bound the Shaggat to silence. I dare say you've missed that service since I left the
Chathrand
. And who made sure Sandor Ott caught up with your favorite witch, Captain, and persuaded her to sail with you once more? For that matter, who told Ott where
you
were hiding? You'd have missed out on the greatest command of your life without my help. I ask you again, Captain: will you let us board?”

“We
will not let you.”

Hundreds of men jumped at the unfamiliar voice. There stood Hercól, with a strange animal perched on his shoulder. It was a mink, black as midnight, white teeth bared. On Hercól's left stood Pazel, looking sick with worry; and on the man's right Lady Thasha Isiq held a sword in a manner that suggested she knew how to use it. Beside her stood her enormous dogs, Jorl and Suzyt, their eyes fixed on Arunis and low growls rumbling in their throats.

But it was the mink who was speaking. “We will not let you,” it said again, “for yours is a mission of death. And your wisdom fades, Arunis, if you doubt the curse in store for you aboard the Great Ship.”

For the first time, and merely for an instant, Arunis looked uncertain. Then he spread his arms and laughed.

“Ramachni Fremken! Rat-wizard of the Sunken Kingdom! Have you come all this way to fight me? Go back to your world, little trickster, and be spared! Alifros is mine!”

Ramachni answered with a soft, single word:
“Hegnos.”

And Druffle was transformed. He leaped to his feet and drew a cavernous breath, like a man pulled from the depths of the sea. Then his eyes found Arunis and swelled with hate. His hand flashed to his cutlass.

And there it stayed. Arunis raised his own hand and Druffle froze, rigid as ice, the blade half drawn from its sheath.

“Yes,” said Ramachni, “I have freed his mind from your charms. And Mr. Druffle has nursed his hatred of you through months of magical slavery. He will plunge that blade into your heart the moment you tire of that holding spell.”

Arunis shrugged. “Why should I tire?” And with one hand he pushed Druffle overboard.

In the unnatural stillness Druffle fell like a log. But he did not float like one, although by strange good fortune his face was the last part of him submerged. Men shouted: “Save him! Dive, somebody!” But not a sailor moved.

Hercól thrust Ramachni into Thasha's hands and leaped to the rail. But someone beat him to the jump. Neeps was over the side, dropping first onto a cannon jutting from its gunport, then dangling from its stock. He was still over forty feet above the tabletop-flat sea when he let go. Pazel thought he had never looked so small.

He struck the water some twenty feet from Druffle, vanished for a terrible moment, then surfaced again, swimming toward the motionless smuggler. Pazel gasped with relief. Soon Neeps' arm was around Druffle's neck. Fiffengurt tossed a life preserver, and put four men on the line to haul them aboard.

Arunis did not waste a glance on Neeps or Druffle. He pulled at one oar, turning the lifeboat in a circle until the stern with the Volpek war-shield faced the
Chathrand
. Then he leaned over the black cloth, and with a sharp tug pulled it aside. The men of the
Chathrand
gasped. Not a few turned away in revulsion.

The boat was half full of body parts. Feet, fingers, whole hands. Gore-covered ribs, bloated heads. The gulls screamed: clearly this was what had drawn them, and created the terrible stench.

“Those are Volpek faces,” whispered Thasha.

The dead flesh lay piled on a second cloth, spread on the floor of the boat. Arunis bent low over the stinking mass, mumbling to himself. Then he drew up the four corners of the cloth and tied them together, like some hideous picnic bundle.

“Take them!” he shrieked.

The water-weird rose, spinning like a miniature cyclone, and lifted the mass. For a moment the weight appeared too much for the creature—it was only wind and rain, after all—but then it gathered itself and gave a mighty heave. The bundle spun upward along the
Chathrand's
flank. Men ducked; the bundle just cleared the rail, and with a last rush of speed burst horribly against the mainmast.

Scraps of dead men fell all about them. Pazel had never dreamed of a sight so foul. But what would it accomplish? The crew was disgusted, nothing more.

Ramachni knew, though. “Into the sea! Into the sea!” he cried. “Toss it all overboard, quickly, instantly!”

Leaping to the deck, he bit into a severed hand, and with a snap of his body flung it over the rail. Hercól joined in at once. Thasha and the tarboys, revolted as they were, did the same. But the sailors hesitated. Were they taking orders from a weasel now?