Robert Redick - The River of Shadows

“Good thinking,” said Alyash. “They might wheel guns out of that village. Just as well we’re through with it.”

Thasha turned to him accusingly. “Ibjen lives in that village,” she said. “His father’s waiting for him.”

“Ibjen should’ve mentioned the army camped out in the bush,” countered Alyash.

“Ten seconds between clicks,” said Fiffengurt, “and we’re at fourteen fathoms. Quickly, now: who’s got the calculus for me?”

No tarboy had to ask what the calculus meant. Pazel focused instantly: Ten seconds a click. Six clicks a minute. Four cable-feet per click. Cable length twice the vertical depth. “That’s about… about-”

“Seven minutes,” said Thasha, “before we could get under way. If we needed to.”

“Admiral’s daughter!” said Fulbreech with an approving grin. Absently he passed the telescope to Pazel again, but his eyes remained on Thasha. “Doesn’t she amaze you, Pathkendle?”

Pazel snatched the telescope, calculating the time it would take Fulbreech to strike the water once Pazel pushed him over the rail. Two seconds, maybe. Then a faint voice reached them from the shore.

“Silence on deck!” shouted Fiffengurt.

The voice came from somewhere near the village gate. Pazel squinted and saw a man bellowing into an enormous, funnel-shaped shell, which he held before his face like a voice-trumpet. Try as he might, Pazel could not catch a word.

Then the soldiers parted, and a new figure walked out upon the quay.

He was a massive dlomu, broad in neck and shoulder, and his walk was somehow cruel. The others did not approach him. Something about the man brought the armada itself to mind-something vile, Pazel thought. But whatever it was refused to surface in his memory. The man gestured at the crier, and the latter screamed into the shell-device once again.

“Pathkendle?” said Fiffengurt.

Pazel shook his head. “Sorry, sir, I can’t hear a thing.”

Fiffengurt turned to the midshipman. “Get some steerage passengers up here on the run, Mr. Bravun-some who ain’t been deafened by cannon fire.” He twisted, pointing his good eye up at the Chathrand’s pennants. “Wind’s on the port beam. We’d have to tack a sight closer to those gentlefolk before we could turn and run.”

“We’ve no cause to run anywhere, till we decide a course,” said Alyash.

“Drogues bow and stern, Mr. Coote, if you please,” said Fiffengurt. “We’re close enough without this drift.”

Coote set men running, and in short order Pazel saw an umbrella-like drogue tossed from the forecastle on its chain. In calm waters the drogues would keep the Chathrand almost at a standstill, but unlike the anchors they could be jettisoned, and built anew from wood and canvas.

Midshipman Bravun returned with three steerage passengers: a bearded Simjan man, the apple-cheeked Altymiran woman who had lately become Mr. Teggatz’s galley assistant, and an older, white-haired woman whose husband had perished on the Ruling Sea. Fiffengurt silenced the chatter again. “Cup your ears and face forward, everybody,” he said. “Let ’em see we’re listening.”

The signal worked: once again the dlomic crier shouted his imperative command. The steerage passengers whispered together, debating what they’d heard. It was clever of Fiffengurt to call on them, Pazel thought: locked in their compartment below the waterline for most of the voyage, the steerage passengers had been buffered from the noise of both battle and typhoon. It was about the only good luck they’d had since stepping aboard the Great Ship.

“We ain’t sure, Mr. Fiffengurt,” said the bearded Simjan, “but he might be talking about a putative.”

Fiffengurt frowned. “Come again?”

“ ‘Chin of the putative,’ ” said the Altymiran woman. “That’s what he said, sir.”

“Madam,” said Fiffengurt, “putative ain’t a thing, and don’t take an article.”

“Does that mean it can’t have a chin?”

The white-haired woman merely clung to the rail and stared. When Pazel’s turn with the scope came again, he held it up for Ensyl. The ixchel woman steadied it with both hands. “Focus, Pazel, good. That’s strange: the leader is taking off his boots.”

“Most of them are barefoot already,” said Thasha. “They don’t seem to care much for shoes.”

The white-haired woman took a frightened step backward. “I think we should go,” she said.

“They’re shuffling equipment, too,” said Ensyl. “Collecting shields, and some of the weapons. But they’re strapping other things across their backs. Lighter weapons, maybe, and-”

“Hush!” said Alyash. “He’s calling again!”

The ship held its breath. No use, thought Pazel: he could hear only the tone of anger in the distant voice. It was a bit disturbing to think that the Chathrand had stolen part of his hearing forever.

“I really think we should be leaving,” begged the old woman, pressing a frail hand to her mouth.

The Altymiran woman smiled. “Not chin. It’s give he’s shouting. Give of the putative-that’s the first bit, and then stubborn, stubborn-”

“Stubborn the consciousness,” said the Simjan, looking at Mr. Fiffengurt for approval. Then his face turned pensive. “Actually, that doesn’t mean a thing.”

“Get rid of these fools,” said Alyash with an irate gesture. “Where’s our dear Brother Bolutu? He should be helping us sort out this gibberish.”

All at once there was turmoil at the village gate. More dlomic warriors were spilling out onto the road. But this time they were bringing villagers with them, at sword-point.

“There’s Mr. Isul,” said Thasha. “By the Tree, they’re taking hostages! But what do they blary want?”

Belowdecks, Refeg and Rer gave a final, satisfied roar. The capstans fell silent: the ship was floating free.

“Captain Fiffengurt,” said the white-haired woman.

“I’m not the captain, my dear lady-”

“Give up the fugitive. That’s what the creature said. Give him up or suffer the consequences.”

Sailors and passengers gaped at her. Then Alyash snapped his fingers. “The sfvantskors! Those lying bastards tangled with the dlomu before you ever laid eyes on ’em, Fiffengurt! They must have killed a few.”

“Nonsense!” said Pazel. “They told us their whole story, from the moment we sank the Jistrolloq. The only dlomu they’ve seen were dead ones, on a shipwreck.”

“And you believe them Black Rags?” said the midshipman.

Alyash turned and struck the man backhanded across the jaw. “That’s for your swinish nicknames,” he said. “I’d give it to you harder, Bravun, but you have a point. A sfvantskor will say anything to gain an advantage over a nonbeliever.”^ 3

“But their words rang true,” Pazel insisted.

“Especially your sister’s, eh?” said Alyash.

Pazel glared at him. Double agent, he thought. Or triple? How can anyone, even Ott, really know which side he’s on?

Fiffengurt rapped his knuckles on the wall of the forecastle house. “That Jalantri fellow’s trapped in here now. But there’s no harm in putting the other two on display. Get ’em up here! Let’s see who knows their faces.”

Messengers were dispatched to the Turachs. In sight of the dlomic warriors, Fiffengurt raised both hands, palms outward: Patience. A few minutes later a great mob of Turachs climbed the ladderway, escorting Neda and Cayer Vispek, who were chained hand and foot. At the rear came Sergeant Haddismal, dragging Ibjen roughly by the arm.

“We caught this one squeezing through a hawse-hole,” he said, “like he was about to shimmy down the cable into the gulf.”

“Then he’s the fugitive,” said Midshipman Bravun.