Robert Redick - The Rats and the Ruling sea

Except for one, thought Pazel, looking back at the gargantuan, battle-scarred ship. Taliktrum had ordered a search for Arunis, deck by deck, but somehow the mage had eluded them. What's he hiding for? Did he find out, somehow, about Bolutu's allies? Could they be closer than we think?

The jetty began at the foot of the tower, and was built of the same red stone. It swept in a graceful curve out into the Gulf, shattering the waves from the inlet, and leaving the water within its embrace almost becalmed. Stairs descended to the water in three places, and at one of these they moored the boat. From there, it was a short, awkward jump onto the weedy stairs.

As he climbed Pazel felt terribly dizzy. The very stillness of the jetty was to blame, he knew: after months at sea only constant motion felt natural. They'd be gone again before he got his land-legs.

His comprehension didn't stop him from slipping, however. He might have tumbled right off the wet stones if Thasha's arm hadn't shot out to catch him. Her eyes snapped to his own, and for a moment the Thasha he knew rose within them. She gave him a slight, teasing smile, her parched skin wrinkling. He felt more relief at the sight of that smile than he had to be saved from falling. But even as they stepped onto the jetty the haunted look was creeping back over her face. He clasped her hand, tightly. Stay with me, he thought.

They reached the top of the jetty. Pazel looked up at the soaring tower, its bone-like barrenness, the hundreds of narrow windows gaping darkly overhead. Then one of the soldiers cried out in surprise and pointed.

Four humans stood watching them, where the jetty met the shore. Two men, two women. All four naked. They were lean, sun-darkened, their hair long and tangled. They were motionless as deer.

For a startled instant no one said a word. Then Fiffengurt turned to Bolutu with an exasperated gesture. 'Speak, man, speak!' The dlomic man cupped his hands to his lips.

'Waelmed!' he shouted. 'Peace te abbrun ye, en greetigs hrom ecros ke Nelroq!'

The four figures turned and ran. One of the women gave an odd, keening cry. Then all four vanished around one of the rootlike buttresses of the tower.

The others in the party scowled in bewilderment. What Bolutu had shouted was almost Arquali, and yet unlike anything they had ever heard.

'What in the tar-bottomed Pits was that gibberish?' said Fiffengurt.

'That was their language, Quartermaster,' said Bolutu promptly, 'and my own. I'm happy to tell you that our Imperial Common Tongue, which we call dlomic, is first cousin to your Arquali, for the simple reason that your empire was founded by exiles from Bali Adro, many centuries ago. Didn't I say Pazel's Gift would not be needed? Give yourselves a week or two, and you'll understand almost anyone you meet. You speak a dialect of dlomic, my friends, and have done so all your lives.'

'Exiles?' said Thasha faintly.

'Human exiles,' said Bolutu, 'but in Bali Adro every child — human or dlomu or otherwise — learns Imperial Common. Your histories don't reach back that far, m'lady, but ours do, and they leave little doubt. Your great Empire began as a colony of our own.'

He spoke with humility, as if he knew his words would shock. They did, of course. But no one exclaimed, or asked questions. They had gone beyond shock in recent weeks, and thirst was making it hard to think or care about anything else.

Yet in some part of his mind Pazel was still fearful and confused. 'Why did they run off, if you were speaking their language?' he asked.

'They didn't understand a word!' said Alyash vehemently. 'They're savages, obviously.'

'In these parts? Nonsense!' said Bolutu. 'I expect they were swimming, and we startled them.' His silver eyes glanced at them sidelong. 'You should see yourselves. I might run too, if you popped suddenly out of the sea.'

They headed for shore, through the cool spray of the breakers striking the jetty's seaward face. The village was out of sight behind the wall along the shore, except for a few roofs and steeples in poor repair. Little sand-coloured crabs ran before them. Grey pelicans swept by overhead.

Pazel was frowning. 'It doesn't add up,' he whispered to Thasha. 'The way they just froze, staring at us. And then ran off without a word.'

Thasha blinked, as though struggling to focus on his words. 'Their hair was still dry,' she managed finally. 'They hadn't been swimming.'

Pazel squeezed her hand tighter. The behaviour of the humans was certainly strange, but Thasha's troubled him even more. Her awareness of him, and for that matter of all that surrounded her, came and went like the sun through drifting clouds. Often her gaze turned inwards, as though her body were forgotten, and she was living in some distant country of the mind. But at other times her eyes jumped and darted, chasing things invisible to his eyes. Was it the Nilstone at work? She had touched it with the hand he held now, the one she'd maimed years ago in the garden of the Lorg. He ran a finger over the scar. It was warm to the touch.

Her hand twitched as though he'd found a ticklish spot. She gave him a look that was briefly clear, and once more that hint of a smile played over her lips.

'Oggosk can't do much to us now,' she said.

Pazel nodded, avoiding her gaze. It was true: they were free. The ixchel were no secret; Oggosk had run out of blackmail. But the witch had had a reason for her threats, something she believed absolutely. What Thasha is to do, she must do alone. You can only get in her way.

They reached the jetty's end. Fiffengurt stepped ashore, knelt, and kissed the sand at his feet.

'Hail Cora, proud and beautiful,' he said, and the others mumbled an affirming 'Hail.' It was a ritual never to be skipped: the commander's greeting to Cora, Goddess of the earth, at the end of any particularly deadly voyage. Failure to do so, it was thought, could bring disasters ashore to match those just avoided at sea.

As Fiffengurt rose, something caught his eye. He chuckled, pointing. Scattered on the earth were several piles of blue-black mussel shells, still wet from the sea. A few had been cracked open. Pazel looked down, and saw the little shells clinging thickly to base of the jetty, right at the water-line.

'So that's what they were up to,' he said. 'But why didn't they bring a basket? How were they going to carry them home?'

'No clothes, no baskets, no tools,' said Alyash, frowning. 'Right free spirits, ain't they?'

'It is strange — I confess it,' said Bolutu sharply. 'But there are strange folk everywhere. Come, let us go and clear this matter up.'

Suddenly a cry, faint but urgent, reached them from the Chathrand. They turned and looked at her, but could see nothing amiss. The sound did not come again.

'We must find that water,' said Hercol. 'The crew's patience is at an end.'

The tower doors were shut; a bolt as thick as Pazel's upper arm lay across them, with locks at either end the size of dinner plates. Sand buried the foot of the ramp leading up to the doors. 'This makes no sense at all,' said Bolutu, 'unless the tower became unsafe while I was gone. But what am I saying? It has stood for a thousand years! Why should it weaken in the last twenty?'

The path to the village ran along the outside of the sea-wall, and was overgrown with trefoil and gorse. A mile ahead, near the quay with its crumbling docks and outbuildings, it passed through a stone archway. 'There should be a common well,' said Bolutu, but the confidence was gone from his voice.

They made for the village. But they had not gone twenty paces when one of the Turachs grunted, 'Look there!'

A man had stepped from the archway. He was naked like the other four, and like them strangely crouched and shuffling. He darted back through the gate before Bolutu could call to him.