The Red Wolf Conspiracy Part 2

"Mr. Nicklen," Pazel had continued (the bosun was tolerating his chatter tonight), "is the Chathrand Chathrand fast?" fast?"

"Fast!" he said. "She blary well screams along on high winds! Trouble is finding that much. Small ships can do more with a light breeze, don't ye know? That's why His Supremacy loves his wee gunboats. Loves his big ones too, mind. And middle-sized. As for Chathrand Chathrand, she dreams of a wind that would sink yer average boat. I dare say the Nelu Peren keeps her wings clipped."

The Nelu Peren, or Quiet Sea, was the only ocean Pazel had ever sailed. It was far from quiet at times, but it was much tamer than the Nelu Rekere (or Narrow Sea) that enclosed it. Farthest of all, beyond the archipelagos of the south, lay the Nelluroq, or Ruling Sea. Legends told of great islands, perhaps whole continents, hidden in its vastness, full of strange animals, and people who had once traded and parleyed with the north. But centuries had pa.s.sed, and the big ships had sunk one by one, leaving only Chathrand Chathrand, and whatever lands there were had likewise drowned in seas of forgetting.

"Anyhow," said Nicklen, "these days she don't need to fly like a murth on the wing. She's no warship anymore."

At the mention of war, Pazel's thoughts had taken another leap.

"Were you you in the last war, Mr. Nicklen?" he asked. "The big one, I mean?" in the last war, Mr. Nicklen?" he asked. "The big one, I mean?"

"The Second Maritime? Aye, but just as a powder-pup. I was younger than you when it ended."

"Did we really kill one of the Mzithrin Kings?"

"Aye! The s.h.a.ggat! The s.h.a.ggat Ness, and his b.a.s.t.a.r.d sons, and his sorcerer, too. A famous night battle, that was. Their ship went down with all hands, not far from Ormael, as you must know. But not a trace of that ship was ever found. s.h.a.ggat s.h.a.ggat, lad--that means 'G.o.d-King' to them mongrels."

"But was he ... a friend to Arqual?"

At that Nicklen had turned to look at Pazel with amazement. "Is that a funny, Mr. Pathkendle?"

"No, sir!" said Pazel. "I just thought ... I mean, I was told--"

"The s.h.a.ggat Ness was a monster," Nicklen interrupted. "A vicious, kill-crazy fiend. He weren't friend to no man alive in this world."

Pazel had never heard the bosun speak more firmly. The effort seemed to drain him: he smiled awkwardly, patted Pazel's shoulder, and when they reached the bar he bought the tarboy a leek fritter and a mug of pumpkin ale--two Sorrophran delicacies. But he wagged a finger before going in to his revels.

"Skip this this station and I'll drown you off Hansprit," he said. "Keep your eyes peeled, eh? The captain don't approve of carousing." station and I'll drown you off Hansprit," he said. "Keep your eyes peeled, eh? The captain don't approve of carousing."

Pazel nodded, but he knew the bosun was hiding something. Tar-boys rarely tasted pumpkin ale. What was Nicklen up to? Not mutiny, or dealing in deathsmoke: he was too old and slow for such crimes. Nor did the customers, joking about "the little sentry" and tussling his wet hair in an annoying way, seem much like criminals.

An hour later the bosun appeared with a second fritter and an old sheepskin to keep off the rain. He was bleary-eyed and frowning; his very clothes stank of ale. "Still awake!" he said. "You're a good lad, Pathkendle. Who says Ormalis can't be trusted?"

"Not me, sir," mumbled Pazel, hiding the fritter away for breakfast.

"I never did hate 'em," said Nicklen, with a look of distress. "I wouldn't be party to such a thing--hope you know, if it were my my choice--" choice--"

His eyes rolled, and he lurched back into the bar.

Pazel sat down on the steps, bewildered. Nicklen couldn't honestly be worried about the captain. Nestef disliked carousing, true enough. But he had better uses for his time than chasing his old bosun about in the rain.

Hours pa.s.sed, drunks came and went. Pazel was half dozing under the sheepskin when he felt something warm and velvety touch his bare foot. Instantly awake, he found himself looking into the eyes of the largest cat he had ever seen: a sleek red creature, its yellow eyes gazing directly into his own. One paw lay on Pazel's toe, as if the animal were tapping him to learn if he were alive.

"h.e.l.lo, sir," said Pazel.

The animal growled.

"Oh, ma'am, is it? Get along with you, whatever you are." He shrugged off the sheepskin--and the cat pounced. Not on him, but on his second fritter. Before Pazel could do more than swear, the animal had it out of his hand and was bounding for the alley. Pazel rose and gave chase (he was hungry again and quite wanted that fritter) but the lamps were dark now, and the cat vanished from sight.

"You fleabit thief!"

Even as he yelled, the sickness came rushing back. It was worse than before: he stumbled against a rubbish bin, which fell with a crash. The bitter flavor again coated his tongue, and when a voice launched insults from a window above him the words seemed pure nonsense. Then, just as suddenly, the sickness vanished and the words rang clear: "... out of my trash bin! Blary urchins, always up with the birds."

Fuming, Pazel walked back to the tavern. But there he stopped. It was true: the birds were were in fact starting to sing. Dawn had arrived. in fact starting to sing. Dawn had arrived.

He pushed open the tavern door. The barman sprawled just beyond the threshold, looking rather drowned.

"Uch! Get on, beggar brat! The party's d.a.m.n well done."

"I'm not begging," said Pazel. "Mr. Nicklen's here, sir, and I'd better wake him up."

"Are ye deaf? We drank the house dry! n.o.body's here."

"Mr. Nicklen is."

"Nicklen? That putty-mug lout from the Eniel?" Eniel?"

"Eh ... right you are, sir, that's him."

"Gone hours ago."

"What?"

"And a good riddance, too. Moaning all night. 'The doctor! The doctor paid me for a wicked deed!' n.o.body could make him hush."

"What doctor? Chadfallow? What was he talking about? Where'd he run off to?"

"Softly!" groaned the barman. "How should I know what doctor? But Etherhorde, that's where! Said they were sailin' before dawn. Didn't pay for his last drink, either, the tramp--slipped out the back door. Uch!"

Pazel leaped past him. The place was utterly empty. Fooled, fooled by Nicklen! And what had the man overheard? Sailing before before dawn? dawn?

He rushed back to the street. The rain still pelted Sorrophran, but in the east the black sky was changing to gray. Pazel flew back the way he and Nicklen had come, turned the corner, pounded down a flight of broken steps, pa.s.sed the red cat devouring his fritter, knocked against more rubbish bins, turned another corner and sprinted for the wharf as if his life depended on it.

The fishermen were back from their night at sea. They whistled and laughed: "Seen a ghost, tarry?" "Seen a ghost, tarry?" He dashed through their barrels and gutting-troughs and heaped-up nets. The great hulk of the He dashed through their barrels and gutting-troughs and heaped-up nets. The great hulk of the Chathrand Chathrand loomed straight ahead, men crawling about her in the grayness like ants upon a log. But in the corner of the wharf beyond her there was no ship named loomed straight ahead, men crawling about her in the grayness like ants upon a log. But in the corner of the wharf beyond her there was no ship named Eniel Eniel to receive him. to receive him.

He raced to the end of the fishermen's pier. He spotted her in the harbor, sails filling, picking up speed. He tore off his shirt and waved it and bellowed the captain's name. But the breeze was offsh.o.r.e, and the rain m.u.f.fled his voice. The Eniel Eniel did not hear him, or did not care to. Pazel was homeless. did not hear him, or did not care to. Pazel was homeless.

Clan

1 Vaqrin 941

5:23 a.m.

Twelve feet below, amidst the slosh of outflowing tide, the wet blip-plip blip-plip of barnacles and the groans of old timbers, a woman's voice hissed in sympathy. of barnacles and the groans of old timbers, a woman's voice hissed in sympathy.

"Chht, what a sorrow! The lad's missed his boat. What will happen to him, I wonder?"

"You and your questions," answered a young man's voice. "All I want to know is, what's to happen to us?"

"Perhaps he could tell."

"What sort of nonsense is that, Diadrelu?" "My own," said the woman. "Give us some bread."

A gull upon the water might have seen them, if it studied the shadows beneath the pier. They sat on cross-boards forming a long X just over the waterline: eight figures in a circle, and a ninth standing watch, each one about the height of a man's open hand. Copper skin, copper eyes, the women's hair short and the men's tightly braided. Within the circle, a feast: black bread, slabs of roasted seaweed, an open mussel sh.e.l.l with the flesh still moist and quivering, a wineskin you or I might fill with two squirts from a dropper. By every knee, a sword, thin and dark and swept back in an eyelash curve. Many also carried bows. And one figure wore a cloak of the tiniest, darkest feathers, taken from a swallow's wings, which gleamed like liquid when she moved. This was the woman, Diadrelu, whom the others watched half consciously from the corners of their eyes.

She wiped her hands and stood. One of the men offered her wine, but she shook her head and walked out along the board to face the harbor.

"Mind your footing, m'lady," muttered the watchman.

"Oppo, sir," she replied, and her people laughed. But the young man who had spoken first shook his head and frowned.

"Arquali words. I've heard enough of them for a lifetime."

The woman made no answer. She listened to the boy above them shout, "Captain Nestef! Captain, sir!" "Captain Nestef! Captain, sir!" until at last his voice broke into sobs. Homelessness. How could anyone who had known it feel no pity? until at last his voice broke into sobs. Homelessness. How could anyone who had known it feel no pity?

Sixty feet away there came a flash of light: the old fisherman was cooking his breakfast of shrimp heads and gruel on the deck of his lunket lunket, a kind of patchwork boat made of hides stretched over a wooden frame. Lunket: Lunket: that was Arquali, too. So was her favorite word in any tongue: that was Arquali, too. So was her favorite word in any tongue: idrolos idrolos, the courage to see. Her own language had no such word. And without a word to hook it, how the thought wriggles away! That old man knew idrolos: idrolos: he had dared to see the good in her people, who mended his threadbare sails and fixed leaks in his vessel by night. And that seeing had given him a further courage: to carry them here, four clans across four fishing nights, pretending not to hear them in his hold or to notice them leaping from the stern as they docked in Sorrophran. They had never spoken, for to transport ixchel was a crime punishable by death, and only the fisherman and Diadrelu knew how she had woken him once, standing on his night-table, holding out a blue pearl larger than her own head and worth more than he would make in two years dragging nets along the coast. he had dared to see the good in her people, who mended his threadbare sails and fixed leaks in his vessel by night. And that seeing had given him a further courage: to carry them here, four clans across four fishing nights, pretending not to hear them in his hold or to notice them leaping from the stern as they docked in Sorrophran. They had never spoken, for to transport ixchel was a crime punishable by death, and only the fisherman and Diadrelu knew how she had woken him once, standing on his night-table, holding out a blue pearl larger than her own head and worth more than he would make in two years dragging nets along the coast.

"Finish your meal," she told the clan, without turning. "Dawn is come."

Her command silenced them all. They ate. Diadrelu was glad of their appet.i.tes: who knew how hungry the months ahead would prove? Good as well to find an order Taliktrum could obey without grumbling. He was was insolent, her nephew. Already sniffing out the power he a.s.sumed would come to him. As it would, no doubt. When her group joined that of her brother Talag, the two of them would share command, and Taliktrum would be his father's first lieutenant. insolent, her nephew. Already sniffing out the power he a.s.sumed would come to him. As it would, no doubt. When her group joined that of her brother Talag, the two of them would share command, and Taliktrum would be his father's first lieutenant.

She remembered the boy's birth in Ixphir Hall, twenty years ago. A hard birth, an agony for her sister-in-law, who had screamed so loudly that the Upper Watch sent a runner to warn that the mastiffs on the old admiral's porch (directly over Ixphir House) were c.o.c.king their heads. Then out he came, open-eyed like all ixchel newborns, but also gripping his umbilicus: an omen of great valor, or madness, depending on the legend you preferred. Little Taliktrum--Triku, they'd called him, although he soon forbade even his mother to use the nickname. Would he still obey her in his father's presence? Yes, by Rin, he would Yes, by Rin, he would.

She stepped up to the watchboy, held out her hand for his spear.

"The last trawler's coming in now, m'lady," he said. "We've got a path."

She nodded. "Go and eat, Nytikyn."

"There's a crab, m'lady."

Diadrelu nodded, then detained him with a hand on his arm. "Just Dri," she said. Then she turned to face them all.

"You newcomers don't believe me," she said. "And I know that customs differ in East Arqual, where some of you were raised. But I meant what I told you last night. From here forward we are a clan of ixchel--just so. And until our next Fifthmoon Banquet or wedding, my name is Dri--just so. Or if you insist, Diadrelu. Such was always my preference in Etherhorde, in Ixphir House, and I don't mean to change it now. Discipline is one thing, servility another. Turn and look at that monster behind you. Go on."

Unwillingly, they leaned out over the water. It was a sapphire crab, wider than a human's dinner plate, clinging to the moss with its fish-egg eyes trained on them and one huge serrated claw flexed open. Such a claw, they well knew, could cut any of them in two at the midsection.

"Crabs don't say m'lady m'lady. Nor will that a.s.sa.s.sin, that Red River cat, if the hag Oggosk brings her aboard. Nor will the necklace-fanciers."

At the word necklace necklace they shuddered, then dropped their eyes with shame. they shuddered, then dropped their eyes with shame.

"There will be one or two," she said. "You know this. So tell me: can I hide from them them behind my rank? Then I won't let you hide from me behind formalities. Or from your duty to think. When all are counted we shall be four hundred and eighty. The giants will outnumber us three to one, and if we don't out-think them behind my rank? Then I won't let you hide from me behind formalities. Or from your duty to think. When all are counted we shall be four hundred and eighty. The giants will outnumber us three to one, and if we don't out-think them at every turn at every turn from here to Sanctuary-Beyond-the-Sea we shall all be murdered. Warriors, children, your old parents waiting in Etherhorde. By Rin, people! I'm not smart enough to do this alone! No one is. The thought you'd spare me out of meekness could be the one that saves our lives. Who doubts what I say?" from here to Sanctuary-Beyond-the-Sea we shall all be murdered. Warriors, children, your old parents waiting in Etherhorde. By Rin, people! I'm not smart enough to do this alone! No one is. The thought you'd spare me out of meekness could be the one that saves our lives. Who doubts what I say?"

Silence. Low slap of water on wood. Far off in the village, temple bells, ringing the dawn.

"Let us board our ship, then," she said.

"Dri!" they cried, soft but earnest. All save Taliktrum. He liked ranks and t.i.tles, and would be Lord Taliktrum soon enough, when his father declared him a man.

They stood and stretched, b.u.t.toned their shirts of eelskin and sailcloth, washed their faces in a pool of rain. Then, with Diadrelu in the lead, they ran.

To see an ixchel clan set its heart on being somewhere is like watching a thought race quicksilver toward its goal. This clan of nine swarmed up the wooden piling as though mounting stairs, dashed along an upper beam that shook with the boots of fishermen inches overhead, reached a knot-hole in the boards, made a ladder of their bodies and, in a heartbeat, pulled one another up and onto the pier.

No giants saw them. A great ravenous gull did, and hopped straight for Dri, but four needle-sharp arrows met its breast in an instant and it blundered shrieking away. This was the worst now: the open run, the wide gaps and jagged splinters in the boards, and any variety of deaths along the way. Ixchel run in formation, a fluid diamond or arrowhead, and Dri was pleased with the tight cohesion of a clan that had not existed four days ago.

It started well. The fishermen obligingly kept their toes to the harbor. A wharf-rat froze at the sight of them, hair on end and a slashed-off stump of tail twitching alarm, but it proved a wise creature and let them pa.s.s unchallenged. It even hissed a greeting: "Fatten up, cousins!" "Fatten up, cousins!"--which in rat terms is high courtesy.

Best of all, the wind slept. Two weeks before, Dri had lost a boy on this very dock when a sudden gust knocked him sidelong into the waves.

Mother Sky, we might not lose a soul today! thought Dri. thought Dri.

But halfway to land a sailor, flat on his back and reeking of pumpkin ale, came to sudden life and groped for Ensyl, the youngest of their company. Had he used his boot he might have killed her, drunk as he was. His hand, however, was bare, and Ensyl turned like a seasoned battle-dancer, her sword a blur, and cut off his forefinger at the second knuckle. The man howled, waving his mutilated hand.

"Crawlies! Muckin' sewer-sippin' wh.o.r.esp.a.w.ned grubs! I'll kill ye!"

The evil word swept past them like fire. Crawlies! Crawlies! Crawlies! Crawlies! Boots shook the pier ahead and behind. A crowd of giants, two or three of them sober, pounded straight at them from the village. Others rushed to the rails of the nearest ships with lamps, squinting into the half-light. A bottle shattered, spraying them with grog. Boots shook the pier ahead and behind. A crowd of giants, two or three of them sober, pounded straight at them from the village. Others rushed to the rails of the nearest ships with lamps, squinting into the half-light. A bottle shattered, spraying them with grog.

"The barge!" cried Dri, and without hesitation flung herself from the dock. As she fell toward the water, the flaps of the swallow-suit billowed like twin sails. Diadrelu stretched out her arms, found the gauntlets sewn into the hem. The swallow's wingbones, heirlooms of her family, were fused to these gloves, and when her hands slipped inside them she became the swallow, a flying being, a woman with wings.

She barely pulled out of the fall: her feet grazed a wave. Then with four aching beats of her arms, she rose and shot to the deck of the barge, thirty feet from the pier where her people stood at bay. The barge was long and dark, and by the stillness of the lamps at the far end, she guessed its people had not yet heard the shout of "Crawlies!" "Crawlies!" That would change, though: in minutes every boat in Sorrophran would know of the "infestation." That would change, though: in minutes every boat in Sorrophran would know of the "infestation." Ay, Rin! The Ay, Rin! The Chathrand Chathrand! They'll search her anew!

A thump among the fish crates beside her: Taliktrum had thrown the grapple already. Without her signal! There were two possible reasons for such a breach of protocol, neither of them good. Dri pulled her arms free of the gauntlets, dived for the hook and dragged the rope to the portside rail. In a matter of seconds the rope was tied fast: she gave two tugs, and felt it snap tight as Taliktrum bound it to the pier.

Down they slid, black beads on a string. When Taliktrum arrived seventh, his aunt could barely contain her fury.

"You might have struck me me with that hook," she said. "And as Talag's son you should be last down the rope." with that hook," she said. "And as Talag's son you should be last down the rope."

Taliktrum glared at her. "I am last," he said.

"What?" Dri counted quickly. "Where is Nytikyn?" "Where is Nytikyn?"

Taliktrum said nothing, but dropped his eyes.

"Oh no! No!"

"A boy did it," said Ensyl. "Some fisherman's brat."

"Nytikyn," said Diadrelu. Her eyes never stopped moving, hunting threats among the crates and timbers stacked around them--but her voice was hollow, lost.