Robert Redick - The Rats and the Ruling sea

'I don't understand,' said Pazel.

The men looked at him uncertainly. It was Sandor Ott, of all people, who broke the silence.

'The world beyond the Ruling Sea,' he said, 'is not entirely forgotten. What you see before you is all that the libraries, archives and private collections of the known world have yielded to my investigators, after a decade of searching.'

He lifted an ancient book, cracked it open, blew. The page flaked and crumbled.

'Not much to show for our labours, is it?' said Ott. 'But there were a few helpful discoveries: that first canvas gives us some idea of the shape of the coastline we may reach. Another document seems to be a list of surnames — royal families, in all probability — and the lands they govern. But the jewel in this musty hoard is a page from a diary or log-book. I will not show it here, for it is so delicate that each time we remove it from its case a portion crumbles to dust. We have copied it out, however — word by word, number by number.'

Pazel's head was swimming; he was finding Ott's words very difficult to follow. 'What… does it tell you?' he managed to ask.

'Headings,' said the spymaster. 'Course headings, and distances, from Stath Balfyr to lands on this side of the Ruling Sea. Lands we know, cities that yet exist, even though the names have changed. Eldanphul, the old name of Uturphe. Marseyl, that the Noonfirth Kings renamed for their founder, Lord Pol. And one island whose name has not changed: Gurishal. Do you see, Pathkendle? If we can but find this Stath Balfyr, we will know the exact course to the Shaggat's kingdom, and the multitude that awaits him.'

'If we find it,' said Alyash, shaking his head.

'Yes,' said Ott, 'if. Unfortunately the collector of ancient manuscripts who owned this particular scrap of writing… died, trying to stop my men from seizing it. And his records contain no mention of the page.'

Syrarys turned impatiently from the table. 'You needn't explain things to the tarboy,' she said.

Ott looked Pazel up and down. 'I am following my instincts with this one,' he said. 'The ignorant make poor servants. For as long as he is with us, he must grasp the fundamentals. Of course, he will not be with us for ever.'

'What do you mean by that?' demanded Chadfallow, leaning forwards.

The spymaster ignored him. 'Pathkendle,' he said softly, 'do the words Stath Balfyr mean something in themselves?'

'No,' said Pazel.

It came out too quickly, a blurted denial. Sergeant Drellarek sat back with a laugh.

Ott turned to look at Chadfallow. 'There's an answer for you, Doctor. Your tarboy has just lied, very clumsily. My boys in the School of Imperial Security tell better falsehoods after thirty minutes of training. How long will Pathkendle be with us? A short time indeed, if he fails to answer my questions. But long enough to hear one or more of his friends beg for death: a death Ramachni's spell, alas, will make it inconvenient to provide.'

Pazel swallowed. He was only too aware how easily Ott could carry out his threats. Thasha, Neeps and Marila would be forced to leave the protection of the stateroom in short order if Rose let the spymaster cut off their food.

'Look at him, he's stalling,' said Syrarys.

Fascination glimmered in Ott's eyes. 'No, he is considering his choices. He's a thoughtful lad.'

Diadrelu. Pazel closed his eyes. Forgive me.

'Answer the question, Pathkendle,' said Rose.

'Sanctuary,' said Pazel. 'Stath Balfyr means Sanctuary-Beyond-the-Sea. '

Broad daylight. Somehow Pazel had slept the night away, chained once more in his corner. He shook his head fiercely. He had no memory of waking at all.

He was on horseback, clinging to the saddle horn, startled out of his trance. Birds were singing; the great black horse pranced in the mud; and around him a million leaves and fronds and flowers glittered from a recent downpour.

It was already hot; Pazel felt as though some great animal were breathing on him. Yet the noise of the sea was close and loud, and off to his left he saw a place where the trees ended, and blue sky began. He knew suddenly where he was: atop the cliffs, on the edge of Bramian's great wilderness. It felt like trespassing, like putting a toe through some forbidden doorway just to see what would happen.

Ott climbed into the saddle behind him. Pazel stiffened: it was frightful to be so close to the assassin, with his scarred and deadly hands gripping the reins on either side. Pazel had heard the phrase Stath Balfyr whispered among the Ixchel. Only once or twice, when they forgot his abilities; and they spoke it with reverence, like a holy name. He had given something sacred to the most profane man he'd ever known.

Ott turned the horse in a half-circle, and Pazel caught a glimpse of the cave mouth, low like a burrow and all but invisible with greenery. There were other horses: one bore Chadfallow, another Alyash. Swift and Saroo were mounted also; their horses carried large leather purses secured to chaps before the riders' knees. The last and largest steed bore Drellarek and Erthalon Ness, the latter gazing in horror at the jungle about them.

Ott waved his men back underground. Then he turned to the other riders and raised a cautioning hand.

'The first part of this journey is likely to be the foulest,' he said softly. 'Stay close to me, and do not stop unless I do. Trust your horse's footing: these are the noblest animals His Supremacy could provide, and mountain-trained from birth. Away, now! Ride fast and silent, as you value your lives.'

With that he spurred his horse into the bush. There seemed no path at first, and they crashed (far from silently) through great sprays of palm and ferns and creepers. But very soon the underbrush thinned. Huge trees loomed over them, craggy black-barked monsters laden with vines and mosses and dangling epiphytes. The horses were indeed magnificent. They dodged roots and rocks, and somehow guarded their riders' balance at the same time.

They began a steep ascent, criss-crossing a gurgling stream. In patches of sunlight over the water Pazel saw butterflies of iridescent blue, rising in sapphire clouds at their approach.

'Where are you taking us?' he asked.

'Quiet!' said Ott. 'Or you'll find I've taken you only to your grave. We are ascending the mountain known in the Outer Isles as Droth'ulad. An evil corner of a vast, evil isle.'

'Evil?' said Pazel. 'But it's beautiful. Look at it.'

'I am most certainly looking,' said Ott, who was in fact peering deep into the trees ahead. 'Yes, evil: the name means Skull of Droth, the Demon-Prince. But it is not Droth who threatens us now. I am looking for the Leopard People. This has been their part of Bramian for longer than anyone from the outer world has been coming here. Fortunately for us they fear to climb Droth'ulad, but they will slip around its base sometimes, to hunt monkeys or wild dogs. They are master archers, and will kill us if they can.'

'Why do they fear the mountain?'

'Because something lives at the summit that kills them. Not the demon himself, I think, but perhaps something not greatly to be preferred. We would do better to avoid that place ourselves. But the ridgetop is the only swift path to our destination, and Elkstem swears we must put to sea in a matter of days or be kept from all hope of safe passage by the Vortex.'

'But what in the Nine Pits do you want on Bramian?'

'Nothing whatsoever. It is our allies' wants that concern me.'

'Allies?'

'Be silent, lad.'

The way grew steeper yet, and they were forced to slow the horses to a walk. There was a path of sorts, now: a meandering mud track, full of roots and snags and fallen trees. Weird shocks of colour met their eyes: a fleshy orange fungus that seemed to glow in the shadows, a scarlet hummingbird, a metallic-gold moth. Now and then the path left the cover of the forest to skirt clifftops, jutting like grey teeth from the blanketing green. At such moments Pazel looked down on steaming valleys, over lakes and serpentine rivers, and once he saw a ring of standing stones upon a treeless hilltop, and a thread of rising smoke.