But it was no mirage. And it was no tiny island, either, at least in length: the wall of dunes vanished west as far as any eye could discern. Bolutu had given them one name already: the Northern Sandwall, a two-thousand-mile-long barrier of offshore banks, entirely without rock or coral, torn and shaped and sifted by the Nelluroq. “Within lies the great Gulf of Masal,” he said. “Almost a sea unto itself.”
“Gods of mercy!” Fiffengurt had exploded. “You can’t be saying we have
another
voyage to make, before we reach solid land?”
“I have no way to know that, from here,” said Bolutu. “The coast is quite irregular. In places the Sandwall comes to within five miles of the mainland; in others it stands three hundred miles offshore. But it is solid enough, and quite broad in places. There are fishing villages, small forests, naval stations—and yes, fresh water. In other places the Sandwall is so thin one can throw a rock from the north beach into the Gulf of Masal.”
In such spots, he explained, the Nelluroq frequently punched inlets straight through the Sandwall. Entering the gulf by one of these, a ship could make a safe landing on the Sandwall in any number of places, by following the channel-markers set by fishermen. “Provided, of course, that we are in Bali Adro territory. That is likely, for most of the gulf is claimed by our Empire. But I cannot know for certain without a landmark.”
“Are those inlets deep enough for a ship like the
Chathrand?”
Taliktrum had demanded from his perch on Big Skip’s shoulder.
“It depends, sir,” was Bolutu’s reply.
“Depends, depends,” grumbled Fiffengurt. “Everything blary depends.”
They had plenty of sea beneath them now: twenty fathoms, when the lead was cast. Fiffengurt called for topsails, on the masts that could take the strain. Time was against them: the men’s spirits had lifted at the sight of land, but they were still half mad with thirst. And there would be no landing of any kind this side of the Sandwall. When the wind was right they could hear the breakers: a smashing, bellowing surf that would crush any vessel caught in its grip. They had no choice but to sail on.
Taliktrum ordered the release of the steerage passengers, a command Fiffengurt found it easy to obey. At first the forty pale, wasted souls had to be urged not to stand in the sun, losing moisture to sweat: Rose had kept them a long time in darkness, and some did not hide their glee to learn that he was now the one imprisoned. The sailors watched them, shamed by their filth, their long invisibility. But their hearts did not soften toward the crawly who had seized the ship.
Midafternoon the sea grew clearer, and they edged to within three miles of the Sandwall. Now there could be no doubt: the dunes were capped with trees. Smiles broke out on salt-crusted lips: trees meant water, fresh water; they could taste it already. But there was still no inlet, and no sign of home or village on the yellow shore.
When the sun touched the horizon, Fiffengurt cursed under his breath. “Take us out five miles, Mr. Elkstem, if you please. Mr. Fegin, I want double lookouts forward. We’re going to hold this pace straight through to sunrise.”
A cold snap fell in the night, bringing down a teasing dew. Men tried to suck it from the rigging, only to end up with mouths full of salty tar. Others spent the night running their cracked fingers over sails and oilskins, then touching fingers to lips.
At daybreak the Sandwall stretched on as before. The heat grew and the wind diminished, and the
Chathrand
lost half her speed. Hope turned all at once to panic: there was almost nothing to drink. The boiled rum was gone. Captain Rose’s saltwater still had twice exploded, and the repaired device produced only a trickle of fresh water. Tempers began to fray; even some of the ixchel exchanged rebellious glances; soon they would be thirsty too.
That night the wind picked up for several hours. At dawn, they found to their great dismay that the Sandwall had shrunk to a brown thread on the southern horizon: it had curved sharply away from them, and they spent the better part of the day creeping back toward it.
Outside sickbay the line grew long. Chadfallow and Fulbreech put drops of almond oil into blistered, leathery mouths. But there were serious maladies too. One man had a fever but was unable to sweat. Another had closed his eyes for a moment and found that they refused to open. A third complained of muscle spasms; they gave him linseed to rub on his arms. An hour later he lost his grip on a forestay and plummeted from the mainmast: his body sounded like a bundle of sticks when it struck the deck.
The third day along the Sandwall passed in a sort of group delirium. There were storm clouds to the north—forty or fifty miles to the north—but they failed to provide even shade, let alone moisture. There were whales to starboard, blowing froth into the air that looked like the mist over a waterfall in some forest glen.
In the evening water queue outside the galley, a Plapp’s Pier sailor choked on his ration. His throat had become too dry to swallow; he coughed, and his precious quarter cup sprayed against the wall. The Burnscove Boys laughed and hooted, and the sailor who had lost his water promptly lost his mind. He struck the nearest Burnscover hard in the jaw, and seconds later received the same treatment himself. Knives appeared, the Turachs shouted and charged the troublemakers, and the bulk of the men in line seized the chance to rush the water barrel. Mr. Teggatz, swinging his ladle like a club, was knocked over; seconds later, so was the barrel. Few had even wet their lips, but four men lay bleeding underfoot. One, the unfortunate Plapp, died before his mates could carry him to sickbay.
That night Pazel went to visit his friends in the forecastle house, carrying a candle in a little glass. The window was gray with ash and salt scum. When he tapped, sullen faces glanced up through the smoky air. They had been prisoners for forty days, and had long since given up hope that a visitor might be bringing them their freedom. Even Neeps and Marila looked defeated, Pazel thought, as they tiptoed through the sprawled bodies to the window.
They expect to die, thought Pazel suddenly, and with the thought came a sharp bite of guilt. He was out here, free and relatively safe; Neeps and Marila and Chadfallow were locked in there with lunatics, nothing but a little fire between them and death. It was hard not to hate Taliktrum. The accusation still rang in his ears, however:
If it was your family, you’d have done exactly the same
.
Pazel struggled not to show his anguish. His friends’ eyes were red and crusty. Neeps’ skin had paled to the color of driftwood. Marila’s thick black hair had lost its shine.
“No inlet yet,” Pazel managed to say. “But it can’t be far off now. Fiffengurt says we’ll keep on till daybreak, just like yesterday.”
“Only slower,” said Marila.
Pazel nodded; they could not crack on at full speed in the dark. “When … when was the last time—”
“We had anything to drink?” said Neeps, completing the question. “Depends who you’re talking about. Old Plapp and Burnscove, now, they just drank their fill.
Blanë-laced
water, compliments of the ixchel. They gulped a quart apiece, and so did Saroo and Byrd and a few others. They’ll sleep for ten days, and wake up drier than they started. Of course, by then—”
“Don’t say it,” Marila interrupted.
She was right, Pazel thought: the situation was all too clear. Ten days from now they would either have found water or died for want of it.
“You should drink the
blanë-water
too,” said Pazel. “Go to sleep, and wake up with a nice, safe jug at your side.”
Neeps gave a half glance over his shoulder, then shook his head. “Not until
they
do, mate.”
Pazel looked: Sandor Ott was lounging against the wall, arms crossed. His chisel-point eyes were fixed on Pazel.
“He’s listening,” said Marila. “One of them’s always listening—Ott, or Dastu, or Rose.”
“He doesn’t speak Sollochi, does he?” asked Pazel, switching to Neeps’ birth-tongue.
Neeps shrugged. “With Ott you can never be sure.”
I could have been
, thought Pazel,
if I’d let the eguar show me the rest of his life. I’d have known about Dastu as well, maybe
—
and Thasha’s father, if there’s anything to know. Was it trying to help me, after all?
He looked once more into the assassin’s eyes.
Would I have learned
everything
he knows? Could I have stood it if I did?
He thought again of the eguar’s strangest phrase of all:
the world my brethren made
. It still worried him that Bolutu had no idea what the creature could have meant.
He shook himself; this was doing his friends no good. “We’re not so bad off,” he said. “Bolutu thinks the Red Storm may have wiped out any ugly spells Arunis was brewing. He figures it acts like ‘scouring powder for magic.’ I was afraid it might have knocked out the magic wall around the stateroom, but no fear; it’s as strong as ever. And we’ve found all seven of our allies, all seven carrying the wolf-scar—even if it is blary strange that Rose is one of them.”
“Pazel,” said Neeps, his voice abruptly flat, “we’re not seven anymore. Dri is dead. Whatever we were meant to do together isn’t going to happen.”
“Don’t talk like that,” said Pazel fiercely. “Nothing’s gone as planned for
them
, either. We’ll find another way, even if we can’t do what the Red Wolf had in mind when it burned us. I told you what Ramachni said.”
Neeps’ eyes flashed, and Pazel feared he might be spoiling for a fight. Then the small boy took a deep breath and nodded. “You told me. Sorry, mate.”
“Right,” said Pazel, relieved but shaken. “One of us will visit you every hour or so. Thasha’s next, at four bells.”
“How is our Angel of Rin, anyway?”
“Back to normal,” said Pazel with a quick smile.
“You’re lying,” said Marila.
Pazel blinked at her. Marila did
not
speak Sollochi; she was merely listening to his tone. Neeps’ talent was rubbing off on her.
“Thasha isn’t normal,” he admitted. “In fact she has me worried sick.”
Since the Red Storm, he said, Thasha had been increasingly moody and distracted. Her hand, the one she had used to touch the Nilstone, seemed to fascinate her. Pazel had caught her staring at it, and picking at the old scar. And she was reading the
Polylex
, more and more of it, sometimes with Felthrup’s assistance, sometimes alone. It still frightened her, but she couldn’t seem to tear herself away. Pazel would wake in the night to the sound of her soft screams. He would sit beside her, holding her, feeling her tremble as she scanned the pages.
“Once she slammed the book and shouted at me: ‘What was she
thinking
, how could she do it to them? How could a mage be so cruel?’ When I asked who she meant, she snapped, ‘Erithusmé, who else? She wasn’t good at all, she was a monster.’ I told her that wasn’t what Ramachni said, and she just snarled at me. ‘How would
you
like to go through a Waking, like Felthrup, like Niriviel and Mugstur? Do you think you’d still be sane, Pazel? Do you think you’d still be
you
?’”
An even worse incident had occurred two nights ago. It had been a beautiful, warm evening. The two of them had spent a quiet hour seated against the twenty-foot skiff, watching a pod of whales cross and recross a yellow ribbon of moonlight. Thasha had seemed happy and relaxed. In time they had fallen asleep, and when Pazel awoke an hour later she was gone. He did not find her in the stateroom, and alerted Hercól. Together with Big Skip and a few other volunteers they had searched for her, deck by deck, compartment by compartment. It was Pazel who had found her at last: crossing the berth deck, walking like a dreamer among hundreds of sleeping men.
He had run to her and taken her hand. “You shouldn’t be in here,” he had whispered. “Let’s go before they wake up.”
Thasha had looked at the sleepers, shaking her head. “They can’t,” she’d said.
She led him out of the compartment and down a side passage. It was a spot he’d passed a hundred times, but this time, to his great surprise, he saw that there was a little green door, only waist-high, right at the end of the passage, where he thought the hull should have been. The door looked older and shabbier than the rest of the compartment; its handle was an ancient, corroded lump of iron. Thasha had put out her hand to open the door—but slowly, as though fighting herself. When she touched the knob, Pazel had reached to help her—he was curious about the door; he’d never noticed it—and Thasha had suddenly pulled him away, screaming.
“We’re running out, we’re running out!”
“Don’t worry,” Pazel had begged. “We’ll find water, Thasha, I swear.”
“Not water!” she’d howled, clawing at him. “Not water! Thoughts! We’re running out of thoughts and we won’t have any left!” And she had wept all the way back to the stateroom.
“And later on, Neeps,” Pazel concluded, “she couldn’t remember being on the berth deck at all. I’m scared, I tell you. She’s just so
different
, since the storm.”
Neeps looked at him, awestruck. “Everything is different,” he said at last. “Don’t you sense it, mate? I can’t put my finger on it, but I feel as if … I don’t know, as if the whole world we come from, back there across the Nelluroq, had just—”
“Neeparvasi Undrabust!” rasped Lady Oggosk suddenly. “Get away from the window, you atrocious boy! I can’t sleep through your chatter!”
Quickly, Pazel put his hand on the glass. “We’ll free you,” he said in Arquali. “I promise we’ll free you both. You just have to hang on until we find a way.”
“’Course we will,” said Neeps, raising his fingers briefly to the pane. Leaning slightly against him, Marila nodded and made herself smile.
Their courage made Pazel feel even worse. He glanced again at Ott and lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper.
“Remember what Bolutu said, after you left. The part I told you the next morning.”
“About the ones who’ll be waiting for him?” Neeps whispered back. “His masters, the ones who see through his eyes?”