Robert Redick - The Rats and the Ruling sea

She was speaking of Pathkendle, naturally. But before I found words to answer her the duchess gave a scream. I whirled — and beheld a creature where Bolutu had stood a moment ago. The thing wore the veterinarian's clothes, and his smile, but it was not a human being. At the same time it was more like a human than any flikker or nunekkam, or even the sedge-men one sees in the Etherhorde Natural History Museum. This thing before me had a human body and face. It was svelte, and cinder-black, with silver hair and eyelashes, and large silver eyes. Those eyes were its strangest aspect. They had catlike slits instead of pupils, and a double set of lids. The inner lids were clear as glass; I do not know what purpose they can serve.

The creature raised a hand to calm us, then thought better of it and hid the hand in his pocket. But we had all seen it, the black batskin stretched between his fingers as high as the middle joint. Then he laughed, a little nervously, and brought out his hands for all to see.

'I play the flute, you know. In the past twenty years I grew quite good at the human sort. I will have to go back to dlomic flutes now — the holes are farther apart, to accommodate our webbing.'

It was still Bolutu: his voice was unchanged, and his taste for odd little confessions. 'Dastu has already told you about me,' he went on. ' You see now that I spoke the simple truth. The truth about myself, and also, incidentally, about this blizzard of light. For it is the same manifestation that struck us twenty years ago, heading north. Clearly it has magic-cancelling properties. It nullified the flesh-disguises of some of my comrades; now it has erased my own.'

' You look a bit like a giant crawly,' said Haddismal. 'Are you in league with them?'

Bolutu stared at the Turach in disbelief. 'No,' said Dastu. 'More likely he's with the Mzithrinis. Right, Master Ott? I'll bet he signalled the Jistrolloq somehow, as we neared Bramian.'

The lad took a step towards Bolutu, as if he intended some violence, but was unsure of the creature's abilities. Bolutu backed towards the door. From his corner, Ott shook his head. 'If the Black Rags had creatures from distant countries working for them, I'd have heard about it. My guess is that we are looking at Arunis' lieutenant. Where has he gone, creature? Did he double-cross you, leave you here among your enemies when the rats attacked?'

Oggosk caught my eye and cackled, and for once I felt I understood the source of her mirth. Just minutes ago we had escaped a horrible death, and yet like performing monkeys these three had snapped back into their routines, to suspicion and intrigue and lies.

Bolutu looked from face to face. 'Incredible,' he said. ' You haven't listened to a word I've said. Why do you bother to spy on us, when your own theories are so much more attractive? For what it's worth I have but one enemy on this ship: Arunis himself. You people, you humans of the north, should have been my natural allies, but most of you have lacked the sense to see it. And now I think I shall go. I have known twenty years of interrogations by angry, frowning persons like yourselves. I find the questions as sad and stunted as the questioners. Goodbye.'

And with that he threw open the door and walked out, breathing freely. Like the others I held my breath against the outdoor air, feeling it bite at the edge of my nostrils. But Bolutu was obviously, utterly immune. A result of his transformation, I presume. He strolled away through the Red Storm, past men and crawlies alike. When he caught up with Pathkendle and Thasha Isiq (she looked spent and fragile, now, and the Ormali held her tight in his arms) the creature greeted them like old friends.

You will be wondering how I can speak of pride, when still caged by crawlies? I shall tell you briefly, and then let Oggosk do her witching best to deliver this letter. She assures me she can do so even here, locked out of her cabin, provided we wait until dark.

Like a soundless, strengthening gale, the Red Storm grew brighter and brighter. Men deserted the topdeck — I could not even see a man at the wheel, though I could not be sure: looking down the length of the glowing ship was like staring into the heart of a bonfire. The other prisoners urged me to cover the window, and there was no good reason to refuse. We tacked up another shirt, but the light crept in somehow: through the crawlies' bolt-hole, maybe, or the seams in the walls. All I know is that within a quarter-hour we were shielding our eyes from each other, and from the room itself. Another five minutes, and it was penetrating our eyelids. Sometime after that — how else can I put this? — it had filled our brains. We stood shivering, as if our eyes had been skinned and our heads surrounded by row upon row of scarlet lamps. We did not move or speak or moan. There was no pain, but there was no place to hide.

And then it was gone. Normal vision returned. And when I dared look out again, I saw the red light in pools upon the deck, running here and there as the Great Ship rolled, and pouring like rain through the scuppers. We were on a natural sea, among stout forty-foot swells. When the crawlies came to rebuild the fire they ventured to inform us that the storm was visible behind us — to the north — still stretching from horizon to horizon. To this day I do no know how long we spent in that scouring light. Minutes, hours? The better part of a day?

The work that had begun in terror now resumed with sanity and calm. Or at least without panic. There was soon a new emergency: fresh water. To ensure that we all collapsed together, the damnable crawlies had poisoned every last reserve of water, from the big casks in the hold to the hogsheads used for cooking purposes in the galley. The stateroom's private supply was beyond their reach, but Uskins (I soon discovered) had stopped delivery of water to the stateroom some months ago, thinking it a smart blow against Pathkendle amp; Co. to force them to lug buckets from the berth deck. There were a few flagons and skins that the crawlies had missed, and some ash-polluted rainwater caught in the furled sails. The live animals compartment had a reserve, but it was smashed open at the top, and full of rat blood. Most of the animals themselves were dead: throats torn open, flesh burned black. Yet a surprising number, including Oggosk's wretched cat and the Red River hog, had simply disappeared. Those that remained (a goose, two swine, three chickens) were slaughtered at once. Mzithrinis are not the only ones capable of drinking blood.

We could, of course, still drink from the casks that had survived the fire. And quite a few men did, in days ahead, as the sun beat down mercilessly, and our thirst grew and grew. We would find them sprawled about the taps, well hydrated, asleep. We tried working in shifts, letting some men drink and sleep, while others waited their turn. No use: a pint of water would knock a man out for two days, and by the time he woke he'd be thirstier than before. And of course the work slowed with every man we lost.

So the crew lived, and in some cases died, with thirst. In the forecastle house, we prisoners sat around dry-lipped, trying not to sweat in that room where a fire always burned, and fresh air could kill us. Meanwhile Fiffengurt and his new crawly 'commander' oversaw the repairs. In just two days (the men were strongest at the beginning), they had the foremast and spankermast rigged anew, and we were able to aim the ship south once again. The augrongs (we found them by following a trail of rats torn like rag dolls to the orlop forepeak, where they had barricaded themselves) helped greatly with the larger timbers, once Pathkendle convinced them that the rodents were dead. We picked up speed. There were accidents, broken shrouds, a broken arm from a falling wheelblock. All told, however, the quartermaster proved his worth. And the crawlies? They cared not what we thought of them, so long as the ship ran south.