Robert Redick - The Rats and the Ruling sea

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 towards the crawly who had seized the ship.

Mid-afternoon 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 forwards. 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 salt-water 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 towards 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 stormclouds 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 grey 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 colour 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. Blane-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 blane-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 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.