“Why, he's top quality!” cried the soldier. “Sponsored by the fishermen's club and all. You're a seasoned tarboy, aren't you, cub?”
Pazel hesitated only an instant. None of these screaming townsfolk knew what it was like to be an Ormali in the Empire of Arqual. However bad Rose made life on the
Chathrand
, it would be better than starving, or being sent to break stones in the Forgotten Colonies.
“I am, sir!” he cried. “I was much appreciated by Captain Nestef of the
Eniel
, who told me I knew my rigging like a true sailor, and my knots, and my flags, and my signals, to say nothing of my
dispatch
in foul weather, and he never meant to leave me ashore, I'm—”
“Buffoon!” said the blond officer to the marine. “Take that chattering monkey from my sight.”
“You watch your tongue,” growled the soldier. “I don't care how rich that old woman's made ye—”
“Rich enough to tire of swindlers,” said the officer.
“You're addressing a member of His Supremacy's Tenth Legion!”
“Then our labors pay for your grog and boots and girlies. Now get hence.”
Watching his luck slip away, Pazel took a drastic risk: he tugged at the first mate's sleeve. “Please, sir! I won't chatter, or act monkeyish, I was not known for either quality on the
Eniel
, where Captain Nestef complimented me on four occasions, twice in the presence of gentlemen, sir, and he said I was a tarboy of
distinction
, and that I was helpful on deck and below, and that my tea was fit for court, that I skinned my potatoes with great efficiency, wasting nothing but removing the rot, sir, and—”
“Mr. Uskins,” said a deep voice. “Take the boy.”
It was Captain Rose. Pazel looked up at the pulpit, and for an instant the big man stared back. The mouth was lost in the red beard, but the green eyes were chilling.
“My father had a chatterbox among his boys,” he said. “The tailor stitched his mouth shut with twine.”
Uskins tossed the marine a coin and waved irritably at Pazel. “Over there with the rest. Go on!”
Already wondering if he had made a mistake, Pazel obeyed. The boys were huddled together, whimpering. Some were mere urchins, come to work for food and shelter on the Great Ship; a few had the salt-roughened hair and strong arms of tarboys. It seemed they had passed the night on the wharf, huddled in doorways, abandoned barges, crates. But they had fled in a heartbeat at the sight of Rose.
Like all seafarers, Pazel had heard of Captain Nilus Rotheby Rose. He was the most famous commander of the
Chathrand
, and the longest serving. Famous because crafty: rumor had it that he had once smuggled a fortune in contraband silks out of Ibithraéd by sewing the priceless cloth up inside double-sails. And famous because cruel: another story had him hanging a second mate by the ankles from the bowsprit for ten leagues. The crime was yawning on watch.
Rose was also the only captain of the Great Ship ever to have been fired. Pazel had no idea why. But the Chathrand Trading Family set the highest standards in the Empire. It was a rare and shocking thing for one of their commanders to lose his ship.
And completely unheard of, a miracle almost, for him to get it back.
A few minutes more and some thirty boys had been purchased. A single glance told Pazel that he was the only Ormali. No surprise there. But it was startling how many misfits the Flikkermen had rounded up. Less than two-thirds had the black hair and broad shoulders of Arqual. The other boys were of all kinds: one had skin the color of brandy, another startling green eyes, two others sky-blue stars tattooed on their foreheads. Pazel had seen such boys over the years, but never in an Arquali crew. They would be outcasts, like Pazel himself. And that could mean—why not?—that they would be his friends.
And at the very least, Jervik was not among them.
Now the first mate, Uskins, turned to face the boys. He was smiling, suddenly. The change in his looks was so extreme he seemed almost a different man.
“Well and good, lads!” he boomed. “You've no cause for worry. Mr. Fiffengurt here will be taking you aboard. He's our quartermaster, and a Sorrophrani blood and bone, and he'll be in charge of you for the whole of your service. Any troubles you have, he'll see you through.”
The still-restless townsfolk, and many of the boys, sighed their relief. The quartermaster's was an important rank in the Merchant Service, and Fiffengurt (there he was, descending the gangway) was a man they trusted. He would take care of their boys, and shield them from Rose. Pazel, however, was unconvinced, and he saw the same caution in the eyes of the older tarboys. Every voyage began with smiles and soothing noises.
Fiffengurt drew near. He was thin and strong, a boiled bone of a man with knobby joints and untidy white whiskers (a bit like shaving lather) on his cheeks and chin. He said a cordial good morning, and smiled at the boys. Or did he? Was he looking at something behind them?
Fiffengurt saw the confused turning of heads, and laughed.
“Lazy eye!” he told them, pointing to his right. “Pay no attention to this one, it's blind anyway. My left eye's the one that sees you. Listen: Mr. Uskins told you right. You tarboys are in my keeping. Do right by me and I'll do the same for you; do wrong and you'll find me a right old terror! Now let's be still and hear what the captain has to say.”
Rose had indeed stepped behind the lectern. His heavy hands gripped its sides, and he looked down at the townsfolk with an inscrutable cold gaze, and waited. Again, the shouts and murmurs died away.
“You think you know me,” said Rose, in a low voice that somehow rolled across the Plaza. “You do not. There was a Captain Rose who sailed the Great Ship, in all the waters from here to Serpent's Head, and who lost her ten years ago—but I am not that man. Before you stands one who has known the burden of power, and craves it no more. People of Sorrophran, I now live to serve, as once I lived to be served. At the pleasure of His Supremacy I will command
Chathrand
once more, but when this voyage ends, so too ends my career as a mariner. I will retire to the Isle of Rappopolni. I am an aspirant to the Brotherhood of Temple Roln.”
The old woman jumped so violently that her cat leaped to the ground. Mr. Uskins gaped. Around the plaza there were chuckles, grunts of disbelief. Rappopolni was a sacred island in the Narrow Sea. Thousands visited its temple each year. The monks of Temple Roln embraced a life of poverty and self-sacrifice: two qualities no one would ever have attributed to Rose.
“In his kindness,” Rose went on, “the Emperor has sent me a spiritual companion. On this voyage, Brother Bolutu will help me in my devotions, even as he tends, with equal compassion no doubt, to the animals in our hold.”
The black man did not so much as blink. He watched Rose as if observing a natural curiosity, such as a snake swallowing an egg twice the size of its head.
“To another matter now,” said Rose. “I know that many of you fine sailors hoped to sign on this morning. It is true that we need more deckhands—three hundred more, indeed, to complete our crew. But I regret to say we will be signing crew in Etherhorde, and Etherhorde alone.”
Now the people howled. “Treachery! Trickery!” A woman raised her fist and shouted: “You'll take the lads but not their fathers, will 'ee? What's it you plan to do with 'em that you can't have the fathers aboard?”
Rose lifted his broad hand. “This is a matter of Imperial law.”
“Law my jaw!” cried the woman. “What law's that?”
“The Law of Royal Conveyance, madam.”
This quieted the crowd: they did not know what Royal Conveyance meant, but it sounded grand, and they wanted to hear more.
“Our mission is one of trade, of course,” began Rose again, “but it is also a mission of peace. In Etherhorde we will be taking aboard a passenger of the highest importance to the Imperium: none other than Eberzam Isiq, His Supremacy's retired fleet admiral and new ambassador to Simja. It is there, in neutral waters, that Isiq will meet his counterpart, a Mzithrini ambassador, to negotiate a permanent peace between the empires.”
Now the silence was one of profound awe.
Rose swept on: “The Treaty of Simja, the Great Peace, will mark a turning point for this Empire, and indeed for Alifros as a whole. In transporting Eberzam Isiq and his family, we must conduct ourselves as though transporting the Imperial Person himself. There will be a full honor guard, and every luxury and comfort for the distinguished passengers. And extra pay for all you tarboys. But alas, extra precautions, too. I am therefore ordered to recruit my sailors under direct supervision of the Ametrine Throne. No one above the level of tarboy is exempt.”
“What about them bleedin' guns?” shouted someone. “My son ain't signed on as a powder monkey!”
Rose glanced sharply at the speaker. He looked to be on the verge of some quick retort. But the moment passed, and he spoke in the same soothing tone as before.
“The
Chathrand
sails in peace, but she was built for war—ancient and colossal war. Those cannon are relics. Truth be told, they were better housed in a museum than a gun deck. We keep but a few in working order: enough to defend ourselves from pirates. Fear not for your sons! I tell you I shall be as a father to my crew, and they as fathers to each of your boys. And of course, every letter of the Sailing Code will be respected.”
“The letters, aye,” said a quiet voice at Pazel's side. “But not the words.”
Pazel turned. Beside him stood the smallest tarboy he had ever seen. His head, wound in a faded red turban, barely reached Pazel's shoulder. His voice was thin and rather squeaky, but there was a quickness about his fidgeting limbs, and a sharp gleam to his eye. He looked at Pazel and gave a mocking smile.
“Lies,” he said. “If he's religious I'm a blister-toad. Just wait and see.”
Rose praised the Sorrophran Shipworks, invoked the long life of the Emperor and then his little speech was over. No one cheered, but neither did they hiss or throw stones: how could they, when they had just been reminded in whose name the
Chathrand
sailed? Already the crowd looked resigned, and Pazel supposed that was all the captain hoped for.
With Rose limping in the lead, the group left the scaffold and made for the gangway, while above them the trumpets resumed their cacophonous blasting. Over the noise, Fiffengurt spoke to the boys again.
“Right, lads, who's for breakfast? The captain's party is dining in the wardroom, but we've a little welcome feast of our own on the berth deck. Come, let's eat while it's hot.”
With a jerk of his head he started walking toward the gangway. The boys hesitated. One or two looked as if they might make a last bolt for freedom. Fiffengurt glanced over his shoulder, checked himself and walked back to the boys.
“Now then, lads, this won't do. You're all going to board that ship. And the only ones who should be afraid are them we have to truss up like chickens and carry in a sack. Now do honor to your names and follow me.”
Reluctantly, they did. The gangway was long and steep, and their footsteps boomed eerily as if they were crossing a drawbridge over some shadowy moat. Shouts and laughter rang above them on the deck. Heart racing, Pazel gazed at the
Chathrand's
portholes (brass-fitted, beautiful), her gunports (how many per deck? He lost count at sixty), the scarlet rail sweeping away like a fence around a lord's estate, the shroud-lines joining the masts somewhere in the sky.
Up and up they marched. On the escutcheon, the ship's cast-iron nameplate, the ship's name blazed in gold letters three feet high. Beneath, in much smaller characters, ran an inscription. Pazel shielded his eyes and began to read:
Wyteralch, wadri, we: ke thandini ondrash, llemad.
Fiffengurt, climbing just ahead of him, stopped dead. The tramping boys halted in some confusion. The quartermaster stared at Pazel.
“Where'd you hear
that
, my cub?”
Only then did Pazel realize he had spoken the words aloud. He glanced from the nameplate to Fiffengurt and back again. “I—I just—”
Then it happened. The words of the inscription, which he had read effortlessly and quite without thinking, changed before his eyes. They softened like wax; they swirled, and finally snapped into a new and definite shape:
CHATHRAND
Sorcerer, sultan, storm: never my masters, these.
No banner is so broad as my purpose,
No sea so deep as my builder's dream.
Night alone can claim me when it claims the earth.
Then dry shall I sleep in the under-depths
Beside my stolen children.
Pazel was so alarmed he nearly stumbled. The ship's name was still in Arquali, but beneath it ran a new inscription—no, the very same!—but in a tongue Pazel had never seen.
It's starting
, he thought.
It's starting again
.
There it was: the throbbing in the back of his head, like the purr of some waking animal. Pazel gazed at the strange letters. He did not know the name of the language—
but he could read it
. Suddenly, perfectly. And in a burst of rage he knew what Chadfallow had done.
Fiffengurt trained his good eye on Pazel. “I know
where
it's written, cleverskins,” he said. “But you were speaking Arquali just now.”
“Was I?”
“You blary well know you were! Fancy enough for court. Who translated the Blessing for you?”
“I … I must have overheard someone,” Pazel said. “On my old ship, maybe.”
“Name?”
“The
Eniel.”
“Your name, lummox!”
“Pazel Pathkendle, sir!”
“Hmmph,” said Fiffengurt. “Well, lads, Mr. Pathkendle has just recited the Builder's Blessing. All the old ships have 'em, some flimflam spoken by a mage or seer, or Rin knows who, before the ship ever touched the sea. Not all of them sound like blessings, as you just heard. Some are hexes, prophecies—curses, even, against those who'd do the ship harm. Nobody knows just what the
Chathrand's
builders had in mind. But listen close: we don't speak those words aboard her. Bad luck, that is, and Captain Rose won't stand for it.”