Robert Redick - The Rats and the Ruling sea

Dri shook her head. 'That is not what we ixchel believe. We say it is our slumbering hearts that choose for us, and that in them resides the will of a thousand years of ancestors who cannot be denied. And it has always seemed to me that this philosophy is borne out even more by your history than our own. How many wars might have been avoided but for ancient grievances, long-dead matters of honour and revenge? We at least admit this part of ourselves.'

'If that is so,' said Hercol, 'why not tell us what honour or ancestry requires of your clan, such that it risks annihilation by boarding the Great Ship on this voyage?'

'You go too far,' said Diadrelu. 'You know that I am not free to speak of such things.'

'We know that much,' said Hercol, 'and not a word more.'

For a moment Diadrelu was speechless. Neither she nor Hercol seemed to trust themselves to continue. At last the ixchel woman turned to look at Thasha.

'If you do not believe that fates can be sealed,' she said, 'I suggest you look to the mark all five of us carry on our skin. A wolf can mean different things to different people, but all wolves are predators.'

'We got these scars to help us save the world from the Nilstone,' Thasha countered, 'not to let us kill anyone who gets in our way.'

'Mugstur is not just anyone. He is a lethal zealot, a depraved and dangerous rat.'

'Felthrup's a rat, too,' said Thasha. 'What if he somehow threatened our safety? Would you kill him, just like that?'

'Yes,' said Dri. 'As I killed the son of the Shaggat Ness — just like that. No ixchel would be alive today if our people had not answered such questions in their hearts long ago.'

'But you spared me,' said Pazel.

The others looked at him in surprise.

'You fought your whole clan the night we met,' he went on. 'They wanted to stab me dead in my hammock, but you wouldn't let them. And come to think of it, you spared Felthrup too — didn't Talag want to kill him after he blocked your escape down that storm-pipe?'

For the first time in many days Thasha looked at him fondly. Pazel dropped his eyes. 'I think I know how the Red Wolf chose us,' he said. 'I think it wanted people like you, Dri. People who can do whatever it takes — even kill — but who hated the idea of killing so much that they'd even fight their friends to avoid it. Because we all do hate it, don't we?'

A long silence. Diadrelu would not look at Hercol. The swordsman, for his part, sat back against the wall. His eyes took on a distant look, as though he were quite alone in the passage, or in some other place altogether.

'Shall I tell you how I broke with Sandor Ott?' he said suddenly. 'It is a dark story, and too long to tell in full, but at the heart of it was my refusal to kill a mother and her sons. They were the lever that has moved my life: had I not faced that choice, to murder innocents or join them in exile, I would today perhaps be serving Ott rather than fighting him. I do not know if you are right about the Red Wolf and its choices, Pazel, but you are surely right about us.'

'What happened?' asked Thasha in a whisper. In all her life Hercol had never spoken so openly of his past.

'We fled together,' said Hercol simply, 'from the Mindrei Vale in Tholjassa over cold Lake Ikren, and thence by the Pilgrims' Road into the icewalled maze of the central Tsordons. And Ott's men pursued us, village by village, peak by peak. For eleven years I gave myself to their protection, and used all I knew of the spymaster's methods against him. It was not enough to save the children. Ott tracked them down and killed them, and took their bodies back to Etherhorde on slabs of ice.'

'And the mother?' asked Diadrelu.

'The mother survives. And with her survives the hope of a better world. She is old, now, but her hand is steady, and her mind is tempered steel. Have you not guessed, Pazel? She was the woman you saw in the garden, and we are far enough from that garden now for me to speak without breaking my oath. Her name is Maisa, Empress Maisa, Daughter of Magad the Third, aunt and stepmother to the current usurper, and sole rightful ruler of Arqual.'

The agitation his words caused can barely be described. Pazel alone knew of Maisa from his school days — Neeps' village had had no history teacher, and Thasha's own had never breathed a single word about such a woman — but they all understood that Hercol was denouncing the Emperor, and even speaking of his overthrow.

'Hercol,' whispered Neeps, 'you sly old dog!'

'My mother used to talk about her,' said Pazel. 'As if she knew her, almost.

'Just a minute,' said Thasha. 'If Maisa's the daughter of Magad the Third, who's that woman they call the Queen Mother? The one who hardly ever leaves Castle Maag?'

'That one?' said Hercol. 'A blameless impostor. An old royal cousin, who somehow survived the Twelve Days' Massacre in Jenetra, and who Magad the Third brought to court as a widow. She has lived there ever since, half-mad but peaceful. I believe she really thinks herself a queen. His Supremacy has made good use of her. When foreign princes call on Etherhorde, that woman's mere presence casts doubt on the rumour that someone named Maisa once existed.'

'What about Maisa herself?' said Pazel. 'What in the nine nasty Pits was she doing on Simja — on Treaty Day? She couldn't have found a more dangerous place if she tried.'

'That is true,' said Hercol, 'and I said as much to her myself. She replied that the world and its assembled rulers had begun to doubt that she still drew breath. "They will doubt no longer," she said. "Neither will the Secret Fist," I countered, but Her Highness told me that Ott would not catch her unprepared, and would risk no open assault on her in Simja, eager as he was to robe Magad in the garb of peacemaker. I can only pray that she was right.'

He smiled. 'At last I am free to speak her name aloud — and my listeners do not know of whom I speak! Listen; I will tell you of her briefly.

'Maisa was the daughter of Magad the Third — a vain and violent prince in his youth, but one who found wisdom in his declining years. She was his second child. Maisa's older brother was Magad the Fourth, also known as Magad the Rake. This youth had all his father's defects of character, and none of his strengths. His worst fault was to see the world's ills and conflicts with brute simplicity. Enemies were to be crushed. Arqual was to be loved. Arquali customs, poetry, history, gods — they were the best under the sun, obviously. This he knew, without bothering to learn a poem, study a history, or meditate upon the teachings of the faith he claimed as his own. He did not, for instance, obey the Twenty-Second of the Ninety Rules.'

Thasha thought for a moment, then recited: ' To lie with a woman is to pledge oneself to her wellbeing, and that of the child that may follow. I shall seek no pleasure there but in the knowledge that part of my life shall be the payment. Nor shall I… " Blast it, I'm forgetting-'

'"Nor shall I deny the wages of love, which are the soul,"' finished Diadrelu.

Hercol looked at her, startled, and appeared to lose his train of thought for a moment. Then he nodded and went on. 'Magad the Rake did just that,' he said. 'At twenty-six, the prince seduced a blacksmith's daughter and got her with child. When she could no longer hide her pregnancy, he paid the Burnscove Boys to whisk her offshore and drown her. But his father caught wind of the scheme in time and brought the girl back unharmed. The old Emperor was livid: word had leaked of the attempted murder, and across Etherhorde thousands were taking portraits of the royal family from their walls and tossing them in shame upon the streets.

'The Emperor hobbled out into the Plaza of the Palmeries and swore that his son would raise the child as his own — or else forfeit the crown of Arqual. But the young prince rode up on a charger, leaped to the ground with a snarl, and spat at his father's feet. What other son could replace him? he asked. And the old man struck his son across the mouth.