The River of Shadows (16 page)

The Fugitive

24 Ilbrin 941
223rd day from Etherhorde

To: The Honorable Captain Nilus Rotheby Rose
Commander and Final Offshore Authority
IMS
Chathrand

Nilus
,

Victory shall yet be ours. The prison has not been built, nor trap devised, nor deception plotted, that can snare a man of the lineage of Rose. Very soon you will walk free, reclaim your rank and powers. And then, son, I charge you: have no mercy, bar no punishment, sterilize your ship of doubters. It is yours, after all. Let those who think otherwise do so on the seabed
.

(“How does he know she’s not just making it up?” murmured the tarboy Saroo. “She just scribbles and moans and stares at the ceiling. She don’t even pause to think.”

“Keep silent, fool,” said the Trading Family representative, Mr. Thyne, “unless you want boils under your tongue, or crocodile dreams, or some nastier curse. She’s the most famous witch in the Merchant Fleet.”

“She’s never done no conjuring in front of me,” said Saroo.

“Count your blessings,” grunted Thyne.)

Now to the matter of your “accomplishments.” You saw the
Chathrand
safe across the Nelluroq. What of it? You are not the first to make the crossing. The Great Ship alone has passed over the Ruling Sea thirty times in her six hundred years. I would not shame you with cheap congratulations. Besides, in matters of discipline your conduct is highly questionable
.

(“She doesn’t even look down at the paper,” whispered Neeps to Marila. “I can’t work out how she writes in straight lines.”)

It is all very well to sentence mutineers to death. You will recall that I applauded the decision. But once pronounced, such a sentence cannot be delayed. It shocks me to learn that Pathkendle & Co. yet walk free upon your ship. You suggest that they provide you with certain services: to wit, the containment of the mage through fear, and perhaps the distraction of Sandor Ott from more venal meddling into your affairs. Rubbish. Kill them. Extract the Nilstone from the Shaggat’s hand, and hang them within the hour. The bodies must accumulate at some point, if you are to discover the spell-keeper, the one whose death returns the statue to human form
.

(“I wish she’d apply her witching skills to finding the leak,” said Elkstem, “or finding out where in Alifros we should be making for.”

“Or getting us out of this stinking trap,” said Kruno Burnscove.)

Your other excuse for clemency is shabbier still. You were chosen, you say: by a “guardian spirit,” resident for an age within the scarlet wolf. Arunis melts the wolf; the molten iron spills and burns you; your burn resembles those of the scoundrel mutineers. And this
implies a common destiny? Has it occurred to you, Nilus, that you are playing the fool?

(“Mr. Fiffengurt told me she gave up casting spells,” whispered Neeps. “He thinks something must have gone wrong, badly wrong, to make her want to quit. But I wonder if she’s not just saving herself for the right moment. She’s deadly, I tell you. Just look at her.”)

If I brand a bullock with my initials, have I given it some higher purpose? If six such animals roam about within a herd, do they serve as the keepers, the “conscience” (that weakling’s word) for the rest? You have all the destiny you require, being my son. When you are governor of the Quezans, when your children bring you sacks of gold from the manors they supervise, your bastards eliminate your foes, your Imperial soldiers collect taxes and your courtesans compete to give you pleasure—then write to me of destiny. Until that day I forbid it.

As for your mother—

“Undrabust,” drawled Sandor Ott from his corner, “move away from the witch.”

Neeps slid a wary step back from Lady Oggosk. He had learned weeks ago to obey Ott quickly, instantly in fact, but he still hadn’t learned to hide his anger. For that he relied on Marila: the only person he’d ever known who could
always
, it seemed, hide her feelings.

“Come,” she said, rising and leading him away, keeping herself between him and the spymaster.

Without her I’d be dead already
, he thought.

They stepped carefully among the sprawled and sleeping men. Rose, crouched behind Oggosk’s chair, noticed them with a start, the way a bird notes sudden movement. He was twitchy all the time now, and carried on mumbled conversations with no one, and sometimes lunged at phantoms. Neeps made sure they stayed clear of his fists.

But you could dodge the threats only so well. The cabin was about five paces by six. One window, one yard of translucent skylight, a curtained corner for the chamber pots. One door onto the topdeck: never locked by their ixchel jailers, but latched from within by the prisoners themselves, lest the wind or some unthinking sailor throw it open and plunge them all into agony. And a smudge-pot in the corner, where burned the little berries whose vapor kept them alive.

The gang leaders, Darius Plapp and Kruno Burnscove, sat always against opposite walls. Their hatred of each other was so legendary, and their dedication to doing each other harm so well demonstrated, that Rose had found it necessary to tie their fates together: “If one of you should die, I will personally kill the other before the body cools. No exceptions. No appeals.” So far this threat had kept the peace. Late at night, when Kruno Burnscove developed a racking cough, Neeps was fairly certain he’d heard Darius Plapp offer him his blanket.

The one most likely to die in the night was the
sfvantskor
, Jalantri. Chadfallow had treated his wounds; the ixchel had dutifully brought everything he required from sickbay. There was no question that the big man was healing. But he was a blood enemy, in a chamber crowded with Arqualis—including the spymaster who had led Arqual’s war in the shadows against the Mzithrin for forty years; and the Turachs, whose very corps was created (as they took to mentioning frequently) to counter the
sfvantskor
s on the battlefield. And Kruno Burnscove had made it known that he held the Mzithrin responsible for his family’s decline, after his great-grandfather’s farm was torched in Ipulia.

Of all the prisoners, it was Sandor Ott who enjoyed the most room. His servant Dastu had a bit of coal, and drew a circle around the spymaster wherever he chose to sit or sleep. No one had dared to cross that line; even the two Turachs avoided it with care. But for Neeps, Dastu himself was the greater danger. The older tarboy had been a favorite of both Neeps and Pazel, befriending them the day they boarded in Sorrophran, and standing by them when so many others turned their backs. Naturally they had thought of him first when plotting their rebellion. And it was Dastu who had betrayed them, testified to their mutinous plans, nodded with satisfaction when Rose condemned them all to hang. Neeps had a recurring urge to break something large over Dastu’s head. But the older boy was Ott’s protégé, and a terrible fighter in his own right. Neeps could outdo him only in rage.

Marila claimed a bit of wall, tried to tug him down beside her. “I want another story,” she said, “about Sollochstol, about the salt marsh and your grandmother.”

It was another way she tried to keep him out of trouble. Neeps gently freed his hand. “Just a minute,” he said, and walked alone to the window.

Chadfallow was there, of course. He spent as much time at the window as Rose and Ott permitted. He stood until he swayed. What did he hope to see? The land? Impossible, until they changed course. The deck? But what had changed? Mr. Teggatz, his mouth closed tight as a clamshell and wooden plugs in his nose, bringing their midday meal? But it was only five bells; lunch was still hours away.

You’d do the same if you weren’t so lazy
, Neeps told himself.
Don’t make a virtue of it
.

He stepped up beside Chadfallow. In fact there was something different on deck: a little conference of ixchel, four of them shouting and gesturing, with Fiffengurt and Alyash crouched beside them, trying to get a word in edgeways. Ludunte and Myett were among the ixchel; the other two were Dawn Soldiers, cold-eyed and tensed. Myett held a bag like a doctor’s case against her chest.

Neeps felt murderous at the sight of Ludunte and Myett: betrayers of Diadrelu, both of them. “What are they doing, the little bilge-rats?” he asked.

“Speaking of us, I think,” said Chadfallow.

“Captain,” said Ott suddenly from the back of the room. “You know prison etiquette as well as I do. Share and share alike. If one of us gets mail, he lets us all have a taste.”

Oggosk had finished her dream-scribble; Rose was poring over the scrap of dirty parchment, the wet ink smearing on his fingers.

“Have a heart, Captain,” said Kruno Burnscove. “Give us some news of the outside world. I mean, if that’s the appropriate term—”

Rose shot the gang leader a savage look. Ott laughed, delighted. “Outside, inside, under? Good question, Mr. Burnscove. Which world are your parents in, Captain, and where do they go to find a post office? Come, read it aloud.”

Rose snarled. He had done just that twice before, to everyone’s amazement: it was not like him to give a damn what anyone wanted of him. Anyone, that is, but Oggosk herself—and the readings enraged Oggosk no end.

Neeps was almost sympathetic. He hated Oggosk, but couldn’t deny that she had a strange, beleaguered dignity. This shattered it: making up stories for the distraction of her darling captain, telling him they were messages from the Beyond. (Which Beyond? The Nine Pits seemed too good for Rose’s father.) That was bad enough—but to hear them read aloud? Rose apparently wanted to convince his listeners that the letters were real: to prove his sanity, maybe. It was having the opposite effect.

Today he simply refused. “The letter is of a private nature,” he growled, folding it in two. But a moment later he changed his mind, turned to face Ott with eyes ablaze. “I will soon walk free. In short order I will resume my command.”

There were smiles, a brief chuckle from one of the Turachs. Neeps shuddered.
Insubordination! On Rose’s ship! They’re giving up on him—or on everything. Is the same thing happening outside?
The thought chilled his blood.

Then Chadfallow started. Neeps turned back to the window and saw the smuggler, Dollywilliams Druffle, ambling toward them. Mr. Druffle had not done well on the Ruling Sea. Already one of the thinnest men on the
Chathrand
, he now had the look of a boiled bone. Fresh water had brought most of the men’s faces back to life, but Druffle’s skin appeared beyond redemption, like those biscuits that fell and petrified in the back of the galley stove. He had shaved off his greasy hair (lice) and given up entirely on shoes (fungus), but to rum and grog he remained faithful as ever.

He approached with a drunkard’s care, watching each step. When he caught sight of Chadfallow he paused, scowling. The two were not on speaking terms.

“The cretin,” hissed Chadfallow.

“Shut up,” said Neeps. “He’s got something to say.”

“Always. And never to any purpose but mischief or slander.”

“Just back off, why don’t you? Spare yourself.”

Chadfallow withdrew, and Druffle slouched up to the window. “Can you hear me?” he bellowed.

“At fifty paces,” said Neeps.

Druffle covered his mouth, deeply contrite. Then he squinted and leaned close to the glass. “Where’s the doctor? He’s a muckin’ swine. D’ye know we’re moving sideways?”

“Sideways?”

Druffle illustrated with a wobbly gesture.

“But that’s crazy,” said Neeps. “A ship can’t move sideways, unless you pick her up and carry her.”

“Or the sea does, my heart. We’re in a rip tide. Miles wide and infinite long, or so it seems. It snatched us up in the night sometime—you felt the wind die?”

Neeps was flabbergasted. “I did,” he said under his breath. “But Mr. Druffle, that means Rose was right. He
said
we were moving sideways.”

Druffle nodded, his eyes red and bleary. “The going’s been smooth as buttercream since that rip tide caught us. You can’t even tell, ’cept by fixing on a spot ashore with a telescope. That’s what I did, y’see. Then I went to Alyash and made him own up. ‘Keep it to yourself, Druffle, you boozy arse!’ he quips. ‘We don’t want a panic. There’s fear enough in the men till we find that leak and plug it. And maybe we can sail right out again, just like we sailed in, and no harm done but a little lost time.’ That’s what the bosun said. But I say, panic. Panic! It’s devilry, this ripper, and it’s sweepin’ us along after that armada, like it wants us to catch up. See here, lad: we were aimin’ to make landfall to the west of that all-edges city, ain’t that so?”

“All-edges?” said Neeps.

“As in we ain’t sure if it’s real.”

“The buffoon means
alleged,
” murmured Chadfallow from the room behind.

“Well now we’re leagues to the
west
of it, Undrabust,” Druffle continued. “All night long we’ve been slippin’ backward. And those flashes ain’t lightning, my heart. They’re the fires of war. Of course, that ain’t what I came here to tell you.”

“There’s something else?”

“You should have stayed on Sollochstol. I’ve been there. You could do worse. You
did
do worse, he he.”

“Mr. Druffle,” said Neeps, “are we sinking?”