"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 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 Shaggat! The Shaggat Ness, and his bastard 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. Shaggat, lad-that means 'God-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 Shaggat 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 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 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 passed, 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.
"Hello, 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 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 damn 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! Nobody's here."
"Mr. Nicklen is."
"Nicklen? That putty-mug lout from the 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!' Nobody 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 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, passed 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?" He dashed through their barrels and gutting-troughs and heaped-up nets. The great hulk of the 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 Eniel 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 offshore, and the rain muffled his voice. The Eniel 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 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 shell 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.