Robert Redick - The Rats and the Ruling sea

Between the third and fourth sink, which she had passed just moments ago, stood a little waist-high door. Amazed that she had failed to notice it the first time, Thasha approached. The door was cracked and pitted, its green paint flaking away; it was clearly very old. Could that be the pantry? What an odd piece of junk, she thought, in a place that was otherwise as neat Chadfallow's surgery.

She took hold of the iron knob — corroded, rough against her palm — and hesitated. For some reason she was apprehensive about the door, and what might lie beyond it. Absurd, she told herself. What could possibly threaten her in an empty galley? But this is the Chathrand, and that door's blary strange. No, it's not quite absurd to beTwang. Thump. She whirled about, drawing her knife from her belt in a flash. Dangling into the passage was a wicker basket. It was strung beneath the first and second sinks, on short cords, but one of the cords had just snapped, tipping the basket on its side. Potatoes and cabbages rolled across the floor — and yes, there was an an onion, huge and red and perfect, the very specimen she had been craving for an hour.

She pounced on it, and the smell made her moan. Hercol's warning stood no chance. Setting the candle on the counter, she dug her nails into the dry outer skin, found purchase, ripped.

Instantly her craving vanished. The skin of the onion came off in a single sheet, and beneath the crackling outer layer it was strong and supple as leather. Thasha turned it over in her hand. The onion itself meant nothing to her now. It was the skin she needed, the skin that had called out to her in her sleep.

She spread it flat beside the candle, with the slick inner surface facing up. She brought her face close. And where her breath touched the onion skin, words appeared: words written in fire.

She had seen their like once before, on her bedroom ceiling in Etherhorde. Pale blue fire in a handwritten script — Ramachni's script. The mage was speaking to her at last.

Forgive me, Thasha: I am weak, and fall back on what tricks and small powers I can to send word to you. Worse still, Arunis has painted your ship in spells of warding and interference. I had a long search for a means of reaching you that he would be unlikely to detect — if only because a craving for onions should strike him as too foolish to investigate.

The sorcerer taxed me more than he knows in our last battle — and far more than I wish him to know. But return I shall at the promised time, and fight again at your side. Before that day I may be able to send another message, or messenger — and then again, I may not.

For today, three warnings: first, YOU MUST READ THE POLYLEX. Knowledge cannot spare you pain, indeed it may increase your suffering, but what is that compared to the doom on the world? If you have left off reading it, as I suspect, my advice is to start at the bitter end and work back to where you stand.

Second, keep an eye on anyone who spends time with Arunis. Like me he is hiding his battle-wounds, but whatever the extent of his powers, his cunning remains. I am worried also by the way he controlled Mr Druffle: the human mind is easily swayed, but rarely seized by force. What is certain is that he will do the same to others, given the chance.

Third, beware your own great heart. Our enemies will try to use it against you, having failed to kill you or make you afraid.

You, Pazel, Neeps, Hercol and Diadrelu were singled out by the spirit in the Red Wolf. That spirit, be it Erithusme's or some other's, believed you could defend your world from the Nilstone. But this much I have learned from afar: your guess was right. There were seven, not five, burned by the molten iron of the Wolf. You must find the other two and enlist them, no matter who they are.

I will not lie to you, my champion: you stand over a precipice, upon a bridge so frail that it will crumble at the slightest misstep. And yet you must gain the other side. We all must, or perish together in the fall.

Ramachni

P.S. Here is a fourth warning: do not open that green door behind you. Keep your loved ones from it too.

Thasha blinked: the mage's scrawled signature was fading, fading — gone. And when she raised her eyes, she saw that the entire letter was gone as well. Just as before, the act of reading had erased them; the only place where they remained was in her mind.

Three warnings… anyone who spends time with Arunis… two more bearing the wolf scar… How could he possibly expect her to remember everything? She wasn't a mage; she wasn't even a particularly good student, as Pazel had reminded her over their Mzithrini lessons. But after a moment of panic, Thasha found herself growing calmer. The message was frightening, but not so complicated. And if Ramachni believed she could remember it, then she would do so. She would hurry back to her cabin and write it down.

Her eyes fell once more on the ancient door between the sinks. Keep your loved ones from it too.

As she emerged from the galley, Hercol called softly to Pazel and Neeps. The tarboys came running. 'What happened?' asked Neeps breathlessly. 'Did you find your onion?'

'Please tell me you got what you wanted,' said Pazel.

'Not exactly,' said Thasha, relocking the door. 'But don't ask me any questions. I'll tell you everything in the morning.'

'Then there's something to tell?' said Neeps.

'Lots. But tomorrow, please! Let's get some rest while we can.'

Hercol reached for the key, and paused a moment, feeling the tremor in her hand. 'Yes,' he said softly, 'I think we shall need it.'

5 Freala 941

114th day from Etherhorde

A sharp rap of wood on wood. Jorl and Suzyt erupted in howls. On the bench under the gallery windows Pazel jerked awake, hit his head on the window casement, tangled his feet in the blanket and fell to the floor.

It was pitch dark. Outside the stateroom Hercol was shouting 'Madam! Madam!' The dogs bayed; Neeps flopped over with a groan. Pazel heard Thasha sweep from her cabin. They collided; she cursed, pushed a dog to one side, and threw open the stateroom door.

Yellow light flooded the room. There in the doorway stood Lady Oggosk, dressed in a sea-cloak, holding a lamp and a walking stick of pale, gnarled wood. Hercol stood beside her, distressed by the old woman's intrusion but unclear whether to prevent it by force. Oggosk pointed at the youths with her stick.

'Get dressed,' she said. 'We're going ashore. The captain has need of your services, Pathkendle.'

Hercol loomed over her, furious. 'I do not know how you passed through the barrier, old woman. But you give no orders here.'

'Shut up,' said Oggosk. 'You're coming too, girl. Bring a weapon. And bring this valet of yours; he's useful in a fight. The Sollochi runt I will not allow.'

Thasha looked at her coldly. 'We're not going anywhere with you. Are we, Pazel?'

Pazel was distracted by the hope that he was dreaming, and by the memory of Oggosk's threats, and above all by his collision with Thasha's soft, invisible, bed-warmed body moments ago. 'Of course,' he blurted. 'That is — no, absolutely. What?'

Lady Oggosk turned him a scalding look.

'We are at Dhola's Rib. The sorcerer is already halfway to the beach, with his Polylex in hand. If we sit back and wait he is going to learn the secret of the Nilstone's use — today, right under our noses. You won't be bickering with me then. You'll be dead, and so will I, and so will the dream of Alifros. I will see you on deck in five minutes.'

It must have been too small, or too unimportant, to appear on the chart in her father's cabin. As she dressed, Thasha snatched a look at her own Polylex, tearing through the pages by candlelight. Daggerfish. Death's Head Coin. Deer's tongue. Dhol of Enfatha. Dhola's Rib.