Robert Redick - The Rats and the Ruling sea

The sorcerer's soft jowls broke once more into a smile. 'Exactly so — and you have just answered the first question I would have put to you, without my even asking. You have told me that he is not back yet.'

He appeared immensely relieved. He laughed, gazing almost fondly at the other man. Felthrup laughed too, but only to disguise his horror at what he had just said.

'Not back,' said Arunis, 'and perhaps never to return at all. I knew it. Deep inside, I always knew he was not so great a mage as they claim. Now then, my good rat, there is one thing, one very essential thing, that I am certain is never discussed outside that room. Who is Ramachni's spell-keeper? Whose death will turn the Shaggat back into a living man?'

Felthrup snatched another candy and popped it into his mouth. He didn't know; as far as he was aware it was a secret kept even from the spell-keeper himself. Felthrup swallowed the candy and smacked his lips.

'You're very clever, Arunis,' he said.

'I am three thousand years old,' said the sorcerer amiably.

'And what would you do if I couldn't help you? If I couldn't bring myself to say another blessed word about the stateroom, or my true and only friends?'

Arunis considered his nails for a moment. Then he too reached for the candy box, and lifted the lid.

White froth erupted from the container. Felthrup tried to leap up, but found his arms and legs bound to the chair by iron shackles. The mage rose and stepped away as the cascade poured from the little table to the floor. Not froth, but worms: slick, ravenous white worms, gushing into the room through the silver box like the sea through a hull breach. Felthrup was screaming, he could see their faces, their barbed and distended mouthparts, their intelligent eyes. They reached his right ankle first, punctured the skin there like nails through dough, he pleaded, howled, they were tunnelling deep into his human flesh, scaling him by the hundreds, thousands, he was being devoured and he felt every point of mutilation, he was vanishing, vanishing into the bodies of the worms.

Thasha was wrenched from her own troubled sleep, in which she was puzzling over the entry 'Fulbreech' in the Merchant's Polylex, by a sudden jolt she couldn't identify. It was still night. The dogs were barking. Her hand closed on her knife hilt before her feet touched the floor.

But in the outer stateroom she found the tarboys stumbling and swearing, and Jorl and Suzyt desperately licking Felthrup, who had exploded from his basket moments before with a bloodcurdling squeal.

'Another nightmare,' groaned Pazel, who had bashed his knee on the samovar. 'At this rate we're going to have to take him to Chadfallow.'

'Or Bolutu,' said Neeps. 'Maybe a horse pill would keep that rat asleep.'

They were trying not to look at Thasha — or trying to seem as though they weren't. She was wearing lace underthings and no more. Irritated at everyone, she fell back into her room, laid down the knife and pulled a dressing robe over her shoulders. Then she crossed the stateroom and gathered Felthrup into her arms.

He was shaking uncontrollably, drenched in cold sweat. 'The w-wor… ' he stammered.

'The worst one yet?' she asked, stroking the lame little creature. 'You poor thing. Tell me about it; that always helps with nightmares.'

'Don't remember. Never can remember. My legs hurt. Oh Thasha!'

'Hush now. It's over.'

'All over. All finished, done.'

'Felthrup,' she said gently, 'can't you remember anything? It really might do some good, you know — like coughing up a poison, rather than keeping it inside.'

The rat squirmed in her arms. His stump-tail twitched. He made an obvious effort to still himself, to bring something, anything back with him from the darkness.

'Where are my spectacles?' he said.

10 Teala 941

89th day from Etherhorde

'You are Alifros,' shouted Captain Rose.

He stood at the quarterdeck rail, red beard tossing in the wind. As he spoke, he swept a hand over the sailors and tarboys, the hundred Turachs, the forty passengers let out on deck for the first time since Ormael: literally the whole ship's company, swelling away from him across the gigantic topdeck, or watching from their stations on the masts.

No one looked impressed by his remark. At the wheel behind Rose, Elkstem shook his head slightly, as if to say Any old tosh — though neither he nor any member of the crew would have risked such facial dissent in Rose's sight.

They had sailed thirty-nine hours, east by south-east: a fast, flawless running. The waters east of Simja were deep and well-charted; there would be no hazards sooner than Talturi, another day's journey at the least. No rain, nor any hint of it. Still it was odd to summon all hands just to talk philosophy.

But then everything was odd. The sailors gazed up at Rose, fear and anger mingled in their eyes. Most had not set foot on land since Tressek Tarn, eight long weeks ago. None had gone ashore in Simja. And their noble mission had been reduced to one of plotting and deceit. Thasha was dead; none knew why. Pacu Lapadolma had married the Sizzy in her place; then the Sizzies had come and called them murderers.

That particular notion was becoming more likely by the day. The men were filthy and stiff and tired of each other's smells. The new hands (including five new tarboys) were still in shock: the night before Rose had called them to his cabin and, surrounded by Turachs, revealed that they were not, in fact, bound home to Etherhorde. By the time he had explained their true mission the boys were shaking, and the men pale as death.

Some of the old crew had yet to move beyond such terror. Most, however, had turned it into a sort of doomsday rage. Their ultimate fate was beyond their control: they were little people caught in the affairs of kings. But they bitterly resented the loss of the earthly joys of shore leave.

Fear might nonetheless have kept these longings buried had not the Lily of Locostri, a floating brothel famous throughout the Crownless Lands, made an appearance in Simja. For two nights she had worked her way quietly about the bay, passing close enough for the breeze to carry hints of jasmine and mysorwood perfume to the Chathrand. Such teases were bad enough, but the sound of young women's laughter had sparked fights and fits of weeping, self-inflicted wounds with rusty knives, the drinking of walrus oil and other acts of pure hysterical frustration. Mr Teggatz, the mildest-mannered cook in fleet history, had thrown back four pints of basting wine, insulted the gods, chased his tarboy assistant with a meat cleaver and vomited into a dumpling stew. And then the orders had come: Stations! Weigh anchor! All hands make ready to sail!

'If we're Alifros, Rin save this blary world,' muttered Neeps.

Rose had yet to speak again. He gaze swept fore and aft, and his hand was still raised above the crowd.

'He's up to something,' said Pazel. 'He's got that gleam in his eye.'

Jervik Lank, standing right in front of them, glared over a burly shoulder. 'And you've got bilge for brains, Muketch. Shut your gob.'

There were sniggers from several tarboys. Pazel looked at Jervik's broad back with contempt. The older boy's hatred of Ormalis was as strong as ever, but his superstitious fear of them had lately diminished. That could be remedied: a few Flikkerman-hisses or Augronga roars would set him straight. Pazel was far more worried by Jervik's new ties to Arunis. He had spotted them together again just that morning.

'What's the matter, then, Undrabust?' said Jervik, seeing Neeps' look of rage. 'Ah, I know. You're missin' that village girly, ain't you? I've been hearin' about the two of you.'

Pazel struggled to hide his fury. Jervik could only mean Marila, the Tholjassan girl they had met among Arunis' captives, and left behind with her little brother in Ormael. Neeps turned scarlet, and Pazel wondered if he had taken taken a shine to Marila.