80th day from Etherhorde
Druffle's ship was the
Prince Rupin
, but the only thing princely about her was her name. Pazel gasped at the sight. The vessel sagged at the waist like an old mule, her paint little more than a memory. Torn rigging dangled from her spars, and sailors aloft moved gingerly, as if expecting the footropes to snap. She had no gunports, but three rusty cannon pointed backward from the quarterdeck. Apparently she was used to being chased.
Her captain was a frowning, bushy-haired man with no love for Mr. Druffle, and, “Right hazardous, and a fool's waste of time!” was his greeting as the skiff drew up to
Prince Rupin's
side. Druffle answered with a rude gesture involving the eel.
One by one the purchased boys climbed her ladder, followed by Druffle and his Volpek thugs. The boys huddled near the bow, ignored by the surly crew. Already men were straining at the capstan, weighing anchor.
Bakru, Wind-Sire
, they chanted, half asleep.
Do not let your lions devour us
. Soon they were drifting with the river's flow, leaving the islets behind, sliding into the sea.
Dawn was breaking, and Pazel knew from one glance at the water that it would be rough sailing. A fierce south wind battered them from portside, and yellow-black clouds like bad bruises were gathering ahead.
He wrapped the old coat about himself more tightly. The waves were ragged and confused. And yet (with Druffle at his elbow, urging him on) the captain ordered the mainsails set.
“The mains?” said Neeps, as if he couldn't believe his own ears.
Pazel looked at the wind-torn sea. “Impossible,” he said.
The other boys looked at them anxiously. “What's wrong? Are you tarboys? What's impossible?”
But it was happening. Sailors aloft—leechlines freed—the big square sails flashing open—
“Hold on!” Pazel shouted.
The ship leaped forward. Timbers groaned, old sheets struggled to rip bolt from frame; on the spars above men clung to anything that seemed likely to be there a moment later. The wind was soon moaning through the stays, and the waves on the bow were like men trying to kick in a door.
Pazel and Neeps had heard all these sounds before—but never all at once, and never on such an obviously ghastly ship. But if they were frightened, the other boys were terrified. One fell seasick in the first few minutes and had to lean over the rail in the lashing spray.
Druffle, however, looked almost merry. He staggered about the deck, black coat flapping scarecrow-like, gazing up with approval at the great spread of canvas.
“He's a loon!” said Pazel. “This old hulk won't take such speed!”
Neeps shook his head. “This is bad business, mate—I can smell it. But what are we to do? It's plain they don't want our opinion.”
“They don't,” Pazel agreed. But he couldn't take his eyes from the sails.
“Come on,” said Neeps. “Let's get out of this wind. And talk, if we can.”
They took shelter behind one of the
Rupin's
sorry-looking lifeboats. At first they could still barely hear each other. But by lying on their stomachs with their heads close together, they managed to talk almost normally. And Neeps had much to tell about the
Chathrand
. The mystery of the slaughtered rats was just the beginning. A rumor had also spread among the tarboys that the ship's carpenters and blacksmiths were at work on a secret project, deep in the ship. Whole decks were off-limits, night and day, except to sailors cleared by Rose himself.
“Reyast heard talk of an iron door and a padlock,” said Neeps. “He thinks they're building an extra brig.”
“But there's nobody locked up in the regular brig. What do they need two for?”
“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Neeps.
“I can't guess at all,” said Pazel. “But you haven't told me what happened to you.”
“I'm coming to that. I told you it was Jervik's doing—blast him!—but it was also Thasha's. Honest to salt, that girl is a menace!”
It seemed Thasha and Syrarys had had a ripping fight. Thasha had caught the consort opening vials of Ambassador Isiq's headache medicine: vials sealed by Dr. Chadfallow back in Etherhorde. Syrarys claimed she was merely adding an herbal tonic to calm Isiq's nerves. “Tasteless and harmless,” she told Thasha. “You could drink it by the glass.” But Thasha didn't believe a word of it. She accused Syrarys of poisoning her father.
“But they're married—or close enough!” said Pazel.
“Well, mate, ain't that the question?” Neeps gave him a hard look. “Is it close enough for her to inherit his gold, if Isiq knocks off?”
“Are you saying she wants him dead?”
“Who knows? Thasha might be cracked. She thinks that old crone Oggosk is spying on her—ever since the woman's cat got hold of her necklace. And she also suspects Jervik.”
“Jervik, a spy? Who would be fool enough to use
him
?”
“Nobody, but Thasha's convinced of it. We met an hour after they took you ashore. You might as well know she was crying her eyes out.”
“For her father?”
“For you, you thick stump. Days running.”
Pazel thought the wind had played a trick on his ears. Neeps couldn't suppress a laugh.
“Aye, Pazel, she's a wee bit fond of you! 'Money, why didn't I give him some
money
?' she kept wailing—not a bad question, either. But she's in trouble herself now. Her father took Syrarys' side in that fight. 'You may
want
what's best for me, girl,' he told her, 'but Syrarys
knows
what is.' That just about broke Thasha's heart. And it was while she was telling me all this—we were down on the mercy deck—that we heard a thump a few yards away. It was Jervik, and two other tarboys what've become his bootlicks. They were crouched behind a bulkhead, listening.
“They claimed Uskins had sent them to check on a noise in the rudder-chains. But Thasha went wild on 'em. ‘Do I sound like a rudder-chain? Is that why you follow me around? Is that why you pressed that ugly ear to my door last night?’ Jervik said he never did. But he said it with a wink at his mates. Oh, Pazel”—Neeps grinned from ear to ear—“he should have skipped that wink.”
“What happened?”
“She whacked him silly, mate. I've never seen the like. Jervik was pinned up against the wall before he knew what hit him, protecting his tender parts. One of his mates took off running. The other one grabbed Thasha's arms from behind. I got him off—clipped him two good ones in the stomach—but he, well—”
“He beat you,” said Pazel.
“Only because of his rings,” said Neeps, turning scarlet. “Otherwise I'd have had him. Tubsung, that smelly hulk. Anyway, I blacked out for a moment. When my head cleared Tubsung was on the deck. So was Jervik, curled up in a ball. Thasha was standing over them, shouting, calling them worms. I mean loud, mate. Like screaming.
WOOOORMS!”
“Oh,” said Pazel. He could guess what happened next.
“A crowd came—sailors, steerage passengers, marines. Uskins was the first officer to arrive, and he had the marines whisk Thasha off to her cabin in a flash. She shouted: 'I started it! Don't blame him!' But Uskins never believed she'd done any fighting. Jervik, that filth-tongue, said
I
was the one pestering the Young Mistress. And what could I say? How could I tell 'im what we were doing on the mercy deck, when it's off-limits now? Then Jervik showed off his bruises. Said I attacked him after he caught me asking Thasha for
unseemly favors
. What do you suppose that means? First-class food?”
“It means kisses and the like, Neeps,” said Pazel, smiling in his turn.
Neeps blushed brighter than before. “That scum,” he said. “I'll kill him!”
“Don't even joke about that!” said Pazel, surprising himself with his own sharpness. “Besides, you can't kill all the Jerviks and Uskinses in the world.”
“I'll settle for one or two.”
Pazel sighed. “You still haven't explained how you ended up
here.”
“Simple enough,” said Neeps. “They would have chucked me ashore at the next port of call. But about the time Uskins separated us the lookout spotted the
Lady Apsal
—the grain-carrier, you know her, don't you?”
“Of course.” said Pazel. “She's an Etherhorde ship.”
“She was bound back to Etherhorde, actually. We tied up to exchange mailbags. And seeing as her next stop was Uturphe, Rose asked their captain to toss us out there ‘with the rest of the garbage.’ How do you like that?”
“About as much as you do. What happened next?”
Neeps was working himself back into a temper. “The final touch came from Swellows—may his tongue rot out! He told me he'd sent you to an inn on Blackwell Street. Naturally I went looking for you straightaway.”
“And found the Flikkermen.” Pazel lay down on the deck, a hand over his eyes. “I'm sorry, brother.”
“Listen, mate, never call me that.”
“What,
brother?
Why not, Rin's sake? I've never had a better friend than you!”
“So call me
friend
. Not brother—not on your life.”
There it was again: that seething fury in Neeps' eyes. Pazel knew better than to argue the point.
“Friend it is,” he said, a bit awkwardly. Then he squinted at Neeps' collar. “Pitfire! That's a right nasty bruise on your shoulder. It's black as ink.”
Neeps gaped. “Kick me, mate, I forgot! It
is
ink! It's a message for you.”
“A message?” Pazel raised his head. “From whom?”
Once more Neeps grew angry. “Jervik, if you ask me. I woke up and someone had written it on my skin. Jervik knew I'd go looking for you in Uturphe. Maybe he wanted to gloat one last time. Can you believe the nerve? The oddest thing is that he used some foreign language. None of us tarboys could read it.”
“But flaming fish, Neeps,
I
could have read it! And what if it wasn't Jervik?”
“Who else would do such a nasty thing?”
“The ixchel!”
“Ixchel? Ixchel?” Neeps' eyes went wide. “Are you saying
Chathrand's
infested with
crawlies?”
“Don't call them that.”
“You mean you
knew
—and you let one use me for an ink blotter?”
“They're not as bad as we think.”
“Really!” said Neeps. “And why didn't you tell anyone about your little ship-sinking friends?”
“They said they'd kill me.”
“How nice. I suppose your Gift let you hear them?”
“That's how it started. But if they
want
to be heard they just strain a little—
bend their voices
, they say—and out comes words that anyone can hear.”
Pazel tugged Neeps' collar back, revealing more of his shoulder, and gave a cry of dismay. “It's nearly all washed off! I can't read anything but ‘Simja’ and ‘must.’ Oh, Neeps, you offal-head! What if it was important?”
Neeps looked at him over his shoulder. Then he closed his eyes.
“Relaga Pazel Pathkendle eb Simja glijn. Ilenek ke ostrun hi Bethrin Belg
. So there. I memorized it, just in case. Pazel! What's wrong?”
Pazel had begun to shake all over. Still he dropped his eyes. “Find something to do,” he whispered. “Don't make Druffle suspicious. We're going to have to escape.”
“You know what it means, do you?”
“Oh, yes,” said Pazel. “It's in their tongue, the ixchel's. And it's very plain: ‘Tell Pazel Pathkendle he must come to Simja. They're going to murder the bridal girl.’”
Toward midday the wind ebbed slightly. Druffle again produced his eel, soot-black after hours of roasting in the galley stove, and sectioned it with an axe on the topdeck. Inside the flesh was tender and pink. Druffle tossed each boy an eel-steak large enough to choke a bear, and with bear-like ferocity they ate where they sat, forgetting their fears. Only the seasick boy lost out.
“Clean them bones!” Druffle laughed. “We need you strong for our little job on the coast!”
“What coast is that, Mr. Druffle, sir?” asked Pazel.
“Wait and see, my Chereste heart! And don't talk with your mouth full.”
Pazel and Neeps leaned back against the lifeboat, chewing steadily. Escape felt more possible on a full stomach—but only just. They looked at the raucous Nelu Peren, this Anything-but-Quiet Sea. There was a dark smudge of mountains to starboard. That would be the mainland, just two or three leagues off, but it might as well have been the moon.
“We're not going anywhere while this weather lasts,” said Neeps.
Pazel nodded. “And it's going to get bad again, can't you feel it?”
“I can,” said Neeps. “Worse than ever, I'd guess. There's a right storm brewing, maybe.”
“The other problem,” Pazel went on, “is
where
to escape. All we know for certain is that
Chathrand's
taking Thasha to Simja.”
“We're heading west,” said Neeps, “so I suppose those mountains could be part of Ipulia. But I thought Ipulia was a land of lakes—it's called
the Blue Kingdom, after
all.”
“Maybe it has mountains, too,” said Pazel. “Or maybe we're west of Ipulia already, and that ridge is part of the Trothe of Chereste. That's Ormael, Neeps. My home—or what's left of it.”
“Didn't you say Ormael is just a day's journey from Simja?”
“Less,” said Pazel. “But even if we land in Ormael, and somehow get away from these nutters, who's going to take us across the Simja Straits? We're not tarboys anymore. Simja may be outside the Empire, but it still uses the Sailing Code. All the Crownless Lands do.”
“They won't
know
we're not tarboys in Ormael.”
“Won't they? If I know Uskins, the first place he'll go is the Boys' Registry. We're probably already on the blacklist.”
“That skunk!” said Neeps. “How I wish the augrong had eaten him.”
The wind soon revived. They talked a little more, but the waves too were growing, and their little shelter was regularly doused with spray. The other boys were huddled as far from the sides as possible, looks of shock on their faces.
At nightfall Druffle chained them to the fife-rail. The boys themselves asked for the chain, for the sea was by this time breaking steadily over the bow, and there was a real danger of being washed overboard. Pazel and Neeps refused the chain (it carried risks of another kind), but they locked elbows with the other boys in the lee of the forecastle. Plunging, plowing, the ship kept up her hysterical westward run.