“What do you mean?” Pazel asked. “Doesn't Arunis want the same thing as Ott and the Emperor—to start a war?”
“Oh yes,” said Diadrelu. “But I think he wants a different ending.”
“Arunis the sorcerer, risen from the dead,” sneered Taliktrum.
“Or never dead at all,” said Diadrelu.
“Diadrelu,” said Pazel, “Mr. Ket saved Hercól's life. If he's such a wicked man, why would he risk his own life for a stranger?”
“We saved Hercól together,” said Diadrelu with a sigh. “The arrow that made the cutthroat stumble was mine. Mr. Ket appeared moments later, and fought the man quite viciously—too viciously for a well-fed merchant. But I have asked myself the same question a hundred times since that night. Does Arunis need Hercól alive for some reason? Could they possibly be allies?”
“Absolutely not!” said Pazel. “Hercól loves Thasha like a younger sister. And he's a good man, damn it—you can just tell.”
“No,” said Diadrelu, “you cannot. I hope you never learn that the hard way, Mr. Pathkendle. Still, I'm inclined to agree with you about Hercól. Otherwise I should not have tried so hard to save him.”
“Tried unwisely,” said Taliktrum, “and failed ultimately. The valet is surely dead.”
“He is a Tholjassan warrior,” said Diadrelu, “and such men are hard to kill.”
“Suppose you're right about Ket,” said Neeps. “If he
is
a sorcerer, what's this shipwreck-raid all about? What's he trying to find?”
Diadrelu shook her head. “I thought I knew. I feared he sought the Nilstone. For once I am most glad to have been wrong, if wrong I am, for that cursed rock might indeed bring doom to this world in the hands of the Shaggat. But these men speak only of finding gold in that wreck—gold, silver and a certain iron wolf, red in color, with a forepaw raised. They are very keen on that wolf.”
“A red wolf!” said Pazel. “The man in Thasha's garden said something about a red wolf, just before he was killed. Hercól said it was connected with great evil. And it vanished—Neeps! That's it! It vanished at the end of the last war!”
“If you really believe this nonsense,” Taliktrum demanded, “why did you say nothing to my father—to
any
of the clan?”
“I wanted proof,” Diadrelu said. “And I thought it would only be found when Arunis left the ship behind awhile, along with his disguise.”
“What disguise?” roared Taliktrum. “He is a greedy merchant, not a mage! He is plundering a wreck, not making war on Alifros!”
“None will be happier than I should that be so.”
“That mad wagon-ride from Ormael,” said Taliktrum, his voice rising. “Daylight use of the swallow-suits, one of which you have destroyed, the pointless rescue of beggar boys—”
“Well!” said Pazel and Neeps together.
Taliktrum pointed furiously at Diadrelu. “I revered you once, Aunt. You were never my father's equal, but I admit I thought you wise. But when we return I shall ask the clan to consider your fitness to lead.”
“That is your right,” said Diadrelu quietly, but anger crackled behind her calm.
“You did not tell me,” Taliktrum went on, “because you knew I would oppose this ludicrous excursion, and without my vote—”
“Be quiet!” said Neeps.
“Dog!” exploded Taliktrum, drawing his sword. “How dare you interfere!”
“I see torches! Quiet, fool, they'll hear you!”
Swift as mice, the ixchel scaled the boys' bodies. It was true: someone was on the Fens road, coming their way. “Off the road, off!” whispered Dri from Pazel's shoulder. “And be silent, if you value your lives!”
The boys crept back into the swamp. It was hard to be silent in that darkness of logs and vines and mudholes, but somehow they managed it. After thirty feet Dri pointed to a thicket of sedge, and there they crouched and looked back.
A horse's neigh was the first sign, and then the creak of wooden wheels.
“It is he,” said Diadrelu.
There were four wagons, each pulled by a pair of sturdy mules. The men driving them were Volpeks—even from this distance Pazel could see their short beards and iron armbands. There were dozens of them, marching on either side of the wagons. Some carried spears, like Druffle's men; others bore war-hammers or cruel axes. Huge and grim as they were, they moved uneasily, casting nervous glances at the Fens.
But the light did not come from torches. Pazel felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp: floating and bobbing before the wagons flew three blue-green orbs, like pale lanterns held by ghostly hands. Other lights of the same sort glided above the wagons themselves. All appeared to have minds of their own.
The ixchel leaped from the boys' shoulders to a low-hanging limb. “Those are bog-lamps,” said Dri softly. “Trickster spirits that dwell in fens and salt marshes. They lure men to their graves in quicksand and feed on their dying souls. I did not know they could be tamed.”
By the eerie light, Pazel saw that the first two wagons were heaped with work materials: rope, pulleys, saws, iron hooks. The next looked like a wooden cage on wheels, of the sort used for taking prisoners to jail. To his horror Pazel saw that it was full of young people—boys' faces, and even some girls', were peering out at the night. They looked both frightened and resigned, as if after so many shocks they lacked the strength to worry about what would come next.
The third wagon, finer than the rest, was enclosed by a hooped canopy. Pazel could see nothing of its contents except a little white dog that ran in and out of the canopy, its corkscrew tail wagging—the one eager member of the party. The final wagon was jammed with canvas sacks and other bundles.
Now and then a sharp rasping noise came from the third wagon. It reminded Pazel of a man trying to clear his throat.
“Blast me,” whispered Neeps. “I've seen that dog before!”
There was no danger of being seen themselves, hunkered down in the bush. Still the boys held their breath as the strange procession passed. Some of the men carried heavy crossbows. None of them said a word.
Then the lead wagon stopped. The bog-lamps buzzed in circles, then whirled forward, and Pazel saw a good-sized tree lying across the road.
“Strange!” whispered Diadrelu. “Arunis' men have been passing this way for days. That tree must have fallen within the last hour or two.”
Still wordless, the Volpeks climbed down and began trying to tug and hack at the tree, now and then glancing back fearfully at the covered wagon. Then the ixchel gave a sharp hiss of surprise.
“What is it?” Pazel whispered.
“Can you see nothing?” said Taliktrum. “Someone is in the last wagon, under the wares.”
The final wagon stood momentarily abandoned, its drivers having joined the struggle with the tree. But then Pazel saw it: a figure squirming beneath the piled sacks. A slim arm worked its way free, and then the figure raised its head and looked around, bewildered.
“Thasha!” cried Pazel.
Incredibly, it was her: he would recognize that golden hair and defiant look anywhere. He felt suddenly lighter, stronger—and then appalled by the sheer madness of what he was seeing.
“The idiot!” he said. “What in Rin's name is she up to? Where is she going?”
“To her own death, if she is discovered,” said Diadrelu. “Arunis will show no mercy.”
“Folly!” spat Taliktrum. “Why do we waste our time with these children?”
At that moment Pazel leaped up and dashed toward the wagon. “Pazel, no!” hissed Neeps, but he paid no attention, lurching through mud and marshwater, until at last he reached the hard surface of the road.
Except for pale moonlight the wagon sat in darkness: the bog-lamps were at the other end of the train, hovering about the Volpeks as they worked. No one looked back along the road.
If he was stunned to see Thasha, she looked ready to faint when he emerged from the Fens. Disbelief and joy and fear mingled in her eyes. “P-Pazel? How—”
“Keep your head down!” he begged, tugging a loose sack over her golden curls. “What are you
doing
here?”
“What are
you?”
“Get out of that wagon!” he said. “Climb down, hurry!”
Thasha shook her head firmly. “No.”
“You blary fool!” he hissed, tugging at her arm. “You're in terrible danger! Climb down!”
Still Thasha refused. “Neeps was right. You're in danger when you're with
me
. And this is my last chance to get away.”
“But why are you with
him?”
“Hitching a ride, isn't it obvious? As we came into Ormael I heard Ket tell Latzlo the animal-seller that he was leaving the
Chathrand
and heading north—'to collect something very special that was left for me there.℉ I didn't know what he meant, and I still don't. I just knew he could get me out of the city. But he didn't go directly; first he went to a poor part of Ormael and met this wagon team. I chased 'em on foot until dark, then climbed in. Ket himself is under that canopy. Only he's not just a soap man, he's—Neeps!”
For Neeps had appeared beside them, looking mortified. “Have you both lost your minds?” he said. “They're almost finished with that blary tree!”
The boys begged, and even tried to pull her bodily from the wagon. But she shook them off.
“I tried to fight them aboard, to build a counter-conspiracy like Ramachni wanted. But they're too vicious. They killed Hercól.”
“We don't know if … I mean, I went to the morgue—” Pazel tried to break in.
“They sold you to the Flikkers. And then poor Reyast. He came and told me he was your friend—and I put him to work looking for the Shaggat. No more! Ket keeps talking about a ship. I'll stow away, ride it as far as I can, then find another—”
“It's not a ship,” said Pazel. “It's a ship
wreck
. And I blary well know he's more than a soap man! He's the evil sorcerer Ramachni was looking for, and you can bet your eyeballs he's not done with the
Chathrand
. Diadrelu's with us, and she thinks his name is Arunis—”
The moment the name left his lips, disaster struck. The little dog two wagons ahead launched itself into the air with a berserk howl. It landed running and reached them in a matter of seconds, biting and snapping at their heels. The bog-lamps whipped about and screamed toward them. Pazel just had time to shove Thasha under the tarp before they arrived, circling the boys like wasps, blinding them, singeing their arms with cold fire.
The sorcerer did not leave his wagon. Only his voice emerged.
“How did they escape?”
The voice was silk-smooth, and somehow all the more chilling for its gentleness. The men aiming crossbows at Pazel and Neeps glanced at each other in distress.
Finally, one said: “There's a loose slat in the roof of the pigpen, sir. But I never dreamed it was possible to escape that way! The little one's cut his shoulder. He must have squeezed through—somehow—and then pried the slat open wider for his friend.”
“Nail it fast.”
“Oppo, sir.”
“And inform them all: henceforth you shoot to kill.”
The mage cleared his throat, violently. The boys could see nothing but the glow of his pipe, which came and went under the dark canopy. Then they heard a soft chuckle.
“You wanted a little food to see you back to Ormael, eh?”
Pazel and Neeps shot each other a furtive look. They nodded.
“Idiots,” said the voice. “You would not have survived the night. There are creatures in the Fens that thirst for living souls and gulp them down like wine. Stray but a little in the dark, and they have you. How lucky you are that my little dog heard your whispers. Oh, he is not a woken dog—not yet. But he is clever. He knows I do not like just anyone speaking my name. And he has
very
sharp ears.”
The glowing pipe made a swift motion. “Get them back in the pigpen.”
He didn't recognize us
, Pazel thought, and then:
Of course! We're caked with mud!
The door of the “pigpen” was opened and the two boys hurled inside, where the other youths backed away in fear—they at least knew quite well that Pazel and Neeps had not come from among them. A moment later the wagons began to roll.
By the light of the bog-lamps (which went on pestering them) Pazel saw some two dozen filthy, frightened captives. He and Neeps tried befriending them, asking their names, where they came from, if the Flikkermen had caught them, too. But for nearly an hour not one replied to their questions.
Finally, a girl with bright round eyes asked, “Are you ghosts?”
Then Pazel understood: this was the Haunted Coast, after all, and he and Neeps had seemingly appeared from nowhere. “Of course we're not ghosts!” he said. “I'm an Ormali, f'Rin's sake! Arun—Ah, that man, what do you call him?”
“The Customer,” said a small frightened boy.
“The Devil,” said the girl.
“Well, the man who bought us from the Flikkers works for him, too,” said Pazel. “We gave him the slip. If he ever catches up we'll be in trouble all over again.”
Eventually the others had to concede that Pazel and Neeps were human. Then everyone began to whisper at once. The prisoners were from Ormael and Étrej, and nearly half, including all the girls, came from a distant Tholjassan town famous for its sponge-divers.
“But shipwrecks are different,” they said. “What do we know about wreck diving? And this is the Haunted Coast.”
Pazel leaned forward and whispered, “What are we looking for?”
Twenty voices replied in unison: “The Red Wolf!”
On this matter Arunis had already addressed them. Many treasures might be found on the
Lythra
, and he would take them. But he didn't care about anything so much as a red iron statue of a wolf with its left forepaw raised. They were to seek this artifact above all things. No one would go home until it was found.
Pazel and Neeps were fools, it was agreed, to get themselves caught over a few wormy biscuits.
“We weren't after biscuits,” said Neeps. “But I'm a fool anyway. Ket bought that dog off a bloke at Tressek Tarn. I watched him bring it aboard. If only I'd remembered!”
“What does he mean, not woken
yet
?” asked the girl. “Can sorcerers wake up an animal, just like that?”