Robert Redick - The Rats and the Ruling sea

'No, I don't,' said Pazel, 'But… maybe he can only have his way with crazy folks. Maybe he can't get inside your head unless it's already a little cracked.'

Jervik said nothing. Suddenly he gave a violent shudder, as if shaking off some cold and clammy touch. Then he laughed under his breath. 'You're smart, Muketch. Smart enough to beat these bastards. I knew it when I followed Dastu down here, and when I waited in the dark. I knew this one blary time I was choosin' right.'

Hercol lay on his side, his left hand tucked carefully beneath his cheek. The first pale glimmers of day were seeping down the light-shafts, distilling absolute black to nimbus gray, carving shapes out of a void.

On the muscle of his upper arm lay Diadrelu. She had fallen asleep there, just minutes ago. He was wide awake, and frightened. He could not catch his breath.

When she woke, her hand clutched for a sword that was no longer there. Remembering, she turned over and embraced his arm with her body. Trembling with wonder. How the world had changed.

'This is what was happening,' she said, still holding him. 'Why I fought with you, why I kept seeking you out. I didn't know it was possible. I didn't know it could happen to me.'

'Possible?' he said.

'You're afraid. Don't be, love. This is a victory. This is why we're here.'

Hercol was silent.

'You're warm,' she said.

He kissed her shoulders, timidly, certain he was appalling her, that his lips and beard were grotesque in their hugeness. Dri shivered, and her arms tightened around him, and for a time he was less timid. Then his eyes felt again the pinprick of light.

'Dawn is here,' he said.

She moved in a flash, sliding from his arm to the floor, gathering her things in a swift whirlwind. In a few seconds she was herself again, the sword and knife buckled in place, the pack strapped tight across the spot his lips had brushed. He struggled into a sitting position, keeping his wounded hands out of the dirt. She ran up his chest like a short slope and threw her arms about his neck.

'I will keep nothing from you, nothing.'

'Nor I you,' he said, breathless. 'But you must go, my dearest, my heart.'

'We came aboard to steal the ship, Hercol. To wreck it on Stath Balfyr, our Sanctuary-Beyond-the-Sea.'

'Yes,' he said, 'I had begun to think so.'

'That chart in Ott's hand, that Pazel was made to read? We forged it. Do you see the sin of it now? You may have been pawns in Ott's game, once. But he remains a pawn in ours. We've depended on his machinations and his madness. We needed him to succeed.'

'Hush, lady — hush, and go now. There will be other nights.'

'No end to them,' she said, and breathed into his ear. Hercol closed his eyes, and for a moment the sound she made was enormous, larger than the envelope of wind about the Chathrand, stronger than the gales they had survived.

Then she fled. Hercol caught a glimpse of her, a running shadow as she passed through the bars.

'Dri!' he whispered.

The shadow stopped, and turned. Dri stepped back inside the cell and looked at him.

'I killed them,' he said. 'The princes, Judahn and Saromir, Maisa's boys. I didn't refuse Ott's command, I obeyed it. I murdered those children, for Arqual. It was me.'

'I know,' she said quietly. 'I have known for some time now. It is plain as a scar upon your face.'

'My great change of heart, of which I boast to other children, like Thasha who reveres me: it came only after those two boys lay dead at my feet. I tried to tell the Empress, before she put Ildraquin in my hand. I could not do it. I have never told anyone but you.'

Dri came forwards and touched his ankle. 'Thasha is not a child,' she said. 'And she does not revere you, Hercol. She loves you. It is a love well earned.'

Hercol looked away, as if regretting his confession.

'Hear me,' she said. 'There is a path out of the Ninth Pit, the Pit of self-torture, the bottommost. But you have only begun to seek it. This truth needs telling to other ears than mine. Will you stand before their mother, one day, and tell her all?'

At first Hercol made no answer. Then, stiffly, he replied, 'I will tell the Empress, if the chance should come.'

'Pray it does. For I fear the lie will gnaw at your good heart — gnaw like a parasite, until you tear it away.'

'Go now,' he said, 'while the darkness protects you. Let us speak of this no more.'

Still her hand remained on his ankle. 'It is you who sit in darkness. I would take it from you, if I-'

'Go!' he said, more sharply than he intended.

And with a last flash of her copper eyes, she went. Hercol sat alone with his knees drawn to his chest. The air was motionless and heavy, as though he were entombed in wax. The light grew slowly. Magritte, the whaling captain, gave a low moan in his sleep.

The ship's bell rang in the morning, his thirty-seventh in the brig. It was time for his exercises, but for once he did not move. He had finally spoken of it. Dri would not love him long.

A man's laugh floated down from the orlop. Someone hacked and spat. In the corridor, a rat crawled out of the gloom. Hercol watched its approach, indifferent. The rat's step was oddly slow.

'You're sick, aren't you?' he mumbled.

'Unquestionably,' said the rat.

Hercol jumped to his feet. 'It's you! Felthrup! Felthrup! You're alive!'

Overjoyed, he rushed to the front of his cell. But Felthrup did not even turn his head. His step was very deliberate, and clearly caused him a great deal of pain. His stump tail dragged listlessly behind him. His fur was matted with blood.

'Come in!' said Hercol. 'Come in here, I have water, I have bandages! Gods below, little brother, who hurt you? Master Mugstur, was it?'

Felthrup made no reply. He walked past the front of Hercol's cell. When he reached the next, he turned very slowly and peered inside.

'Nobody?'

'Nobody what, Felthrup? No one is in that cell, if that's what you mean. Only Magritte and I are imprisoned here. Felthrup — do you know who I am?'

Felthrup slipped through the bars of the empty cell. 'The water,' he said, 'if you can truly spare a mouthful, sir.'

Hercol fetched his water bottle and food bowl. He filled the bowl and carried it to where the two cells met, then put it down and slid it through the bars.

Instantly Felthrup blazed up, snarling. Hercol's hand jerked back.

'Never!' Felthrup hissed, lunging forwards, then turning and dashing in a circle about the cell. 'Never, never, never put your fingers through the bars! Don't come near, and let no one unlock that door! No matter what I say! Do you hear me? Do you hear?'

'I hear you, friend.'

Felthrup's strength deserted him as suddenly as it had come. He slumped immobile in the middle of the floor, and Hercol had the terrible feeling that he might have died. But a few minutes later Felthrup rose and hobbled with the same weird, mechanical stiffness to the water bowl, drank a few sips, and moved slowly to the back of the cell. He stood there, blinking out at the passage, for a very long time.

'It's starting, Hercol,' he said.

27 Norn 941

166th day from Etherhorde

Of course they could not all march into the stateroom at dawn, while the guard at the door was taking notes. By prior arrangement, Marila and Thasha went to the galley and drank tea with the groggy sailors, just off the night watch. Pazel and Neeps were to spend half an hour on the top deck, where one could linger at any hour without raising undue suspicion. They staggered up the Holy Stair, into a morning of unexpected cold. The deck was slick; a brief rain in the night had coated everything with chilly droplets, which the cold wind stripped from the rigging and flung in their faces.