'Rose's men,' she said, 'or maybe Ott's. It was Khalmet who warned us - the Turach second in command. We think think he's on our side.' he's on our side.'

'A Turach, siding against the Emperor? That's impossible, missy.'

Marila shrugged.

'Skies of fire! If it's true, you must never, never never give him away. The things they'd do to a disloyal Turach! give him away. The things they'd do to a disloyal Turach!

'That's just what Thasha said.'

'Where is the young mistress? And Pathkendle?

Marila pointed to Thasha's cabin. 'She's in there. Reading her Polylex Polylex, or trying to. Since Felthrup disappeared she's acted very strange about that book. She just cracks it open anywhere, reads for a moment, and then sits still, gazing off into s.p.a.ce. It's very strange. She looks . . . old, when she's sitting there. And when she stands up she's tired.

Marila looked sourly at Thasha's door. 'She and Pazel are still fighting. Last night it got bad. Thasha mentioned Fulbreech, and Pazel just hit the roof. He said it was time she decided who her friends were, and she yelled back that he should take his own advice, and stop hating her for what her father did to Ormael. Then everyone started yelling at once. Pazel said he could just clear out, since she'd be wanting Greysan Greysan to move in any day. "Admit it," he kept saying. "You'd be happier. Admit it." Neeps said he was sure Lady Oggosk was feeling happy - I don't know what he meant by to move in any day. "Admit it," he kept saying. "You'd be happier. Admit it." Neeps said he was sure Lady Oggosk was feeling happy - I don't know what he meant by that that - and Pazel told him to be quiet. Then Pazel asked Thasha how much Fulbreech had - and Pazel told him to be quiet. Then Pazel asked Thasha how much Fulbreech had got out of her got out of her. He meant how much information, but that's not how she took it. She went into her cabin and slammed the door. And Pazel found somewhere else to sleep.'

'Horns of the hairy devil!' I exploded. 'Leave it to me! I'll straighten that fool of a tarboy out!'

But Marila had something else on her mind. 'Did you find us a room, Mr Fiffengurt?'

'I found one,' I said. 'The reserve liquor vault, in the after-hold. It's dark and small, and the stink could wilt every branch on the Blessed Tree, but it's also as remote as you can get. Just a narrow little scuttleway from the mercy deck, and there's no light-shafts or speaking-tubes to give you away. Trouble is, it's locked tight as a drum. Otherwise you'd have lads breakin' in, ye see, no matter how dire the punishment.'

Then I saw Marila's mouth twitch. Blow me broadside, I thought, the girl knows how to smile.

'Locks are nothing to worry about,' she said. And with that she produced a large bra.s.s key. It was the ship's master key - the very one Frix had used to sneak into my cabin and steal my first journal, the one he'd dropped just before I kicked him in the rump. When I babbled, 'How - how--' Marila pointed at Diadrelu, fencing with shadows on the bearskin rug.

'She found it in a crevice on the berth deck. And she brought it to us, Mr Fiffengurt, not to her clan.'

I knew what Marila was telling me: the crawly had chosen sides, turned her back on her own people, in favour of us. But she's just one But she's just one, I thought.

'Listen,' I said to Marila, 'you must never never be caught with that key on your person. Rose would murder you in cold blood. And that's not a figure of speech, la.s.s. Our captain's a man of extremes, you might say - but you've not seen him angry 'till you've seen him dealing with a trespa.s.ser! Paranoia, that's what ails him. He'd think you were looking for the Imperial horde, wherever they've hidden it - or worse, spying on him, sneaking into his cabin for a look around.' be caught with that key on your person. Rose would murder you in cold blood. And that's not a figure of speech, la.s.s. Our captain's a man of extremes, you might say - but you've not seen him angry 'till you've seen him dealing with a trespa.s.ser! Paranoia, that's what ails him. He'd think you were looking for the Imperial horde, wherever they've hidden it - or worse, spying on him, sneaking into his cabin for a look around.'

'So this does does open his chambers,' said Marila, satisfied. 'How about the steerage compartment? And Arunis' cabin?' open his chambers,' said Marila, satisfied. 'How about the steerage compartment? And Arunis' cabin?'

I didn't much like the drift of her questions, & said so. Her response (she is a girl after all) was to ask another question. 'How many days until the dark of the moon?'

'The dark of the moon? Well now. Six, eight. Why do you ask?'

'Because that's how long we have to choose someone to bring to the council. You've got to bring someone, too. Pazel says it doesn't matter if they're strong or brave or clever - just absolutely trustworthy absolutely trustworthy. But I don't trust anyone except the people who come to this room. Who should I bring, Mr Fiffengurt?'

Neeps' arms were slowing; the mandoloro moaned like a lynx in heat.

'Best come alone,' I said at last. 'Don't take chances. Guess wrong and Rose will have us all killed.'

Marila shook her head. 'He won't kill Pazel or Thasha. Haven't you noticed how strange he is about them? He arrests and abuses Pazel, then sets him free and invites him to lunch. He plans to sell Thasha to the Leopard People, then keeps her by his side all through the battle. Why does he put up with them, or any of us? All he'd have to do is cut off our food until we surrender.'

She might have read my mind - or this journal - so close did her wonderings mirror my own. But I'd come up with a theory & was anxious to tell someone. 'D'ye know what I think, missy? I think he doesn't want want to beat Pazel or Thasha. He needs 'em. He wants 'em walking this ship, free and visible, and for one very good reason: to beat Pazel or Thasha. He needs 'em. He wants 'em walking this ship, free and visible, and for one very good reason: because they frighten Arunis because they frighten Arunis.'

Marila looked at me in blankly.

'Thasha defeated the mage's fleshancs,' I went on, 'and there's her friendship with Ramachni to consider. And Pazel turned his s.h.a.ggat into a lump of stone. As long as Arunis has them to worry about, he won't be so quick to try something else. Like taking over the Chathrand.' Chathrand.'

'You're right,' said Marila, her face creasing with thought. 'Oh, how stupid I am! Yes, yes - and that's that's why there are Plapps and Burnscove Boys.' why there are Plapps and Burnscove Boys.'

'Eh - um--'

'Aboard the Chathrand Chathrand, I mean. That's why Rose brought so many Plapps onto a Burnscove ship. Don't you understand? As long as the crew's divided he never has to worry about a mutiny, no matter what he puts us all through. It makes perfect sense.'

It did make perfect sense, & little Marila is anything but stupid. The crew is one third Burnscove Boys, one third Plapp's Pier, & one third men from neither gang. Foolproof, you might say. Their numbers were large enough to divide the crew, but too small for either gang to take over. And if the thought of mutiny ever did cross a few minds - well, the only way they could dream of taking on those deadly Turachs would be as a ship united. And we'll see the moon hatch tadpoles before that day ever comes.

These thoughts all but crushed me. 'We have no hope, do we, la.s.s? They've been planning this for decades.'

'So has Ramachni,' she said.

'Was he planning for Arunis to whack him so hard he could barely crawl home?'

My tongue had got ahead of me; I didn't mean to speak such words of despair to this brave young thing. Marila took it calmly, however.

'I don't know,' she said, 'but I bet you'll get a chance to ask him.'

Wednesday, 27 Norn, 941. The sorcerer has murdered Peytr Bourjon. Old Gangrune saw it happen, in the pa.s.sage outside his cabin. Seems the daft tarboy never had quite left off serving Arunis. Gangrune watched them through a crack in his cabin door: they met, talked, the boy pleaded for something on his knees. Arunis held out his hand & Peytr took it. Then the monster reached out and snapped his neck. One-handed. Gangrune slammed his door and started howling murder murder murder. Arunis merely walked away.

No clue from any quarter as to how Bourjon had angered the mage. Perhaps he never did. Perhaps Arunis merely wanted to attract our attention, lest anyone imagine his powers or his wickedness decreased.

How sick I am of death, of walking, living, sleeping among killers. Of serving as their quartermaster, their fool. There's little I wouldn't hazard to put an end to them. Forgive me, my Anni, my heart.

31.

Metamorphoses

24 Freala 941

The White Reaper, pride of the Pentarchy, holy avenger of the Mzithrin, spun beneath the killing waves in a state of chaos no seafarer had ever lived to describe. Up was down, falling was rising, solid rails became splinters; the very air one tried to gulp was seawater that stabbed one to the heart with cold, and the blackness of the depths was over and under and within her. She was vanquished, and her four hundred men were perishing in the imploding coffin of her hull.

Neda Ygrael felt her body whirl in the blind cyclone, heard her people's screams extinguished chamber by chamber as the sea advanced, felt the ship's armoured bulk cleaving down into the permanent night of the Nelluroq. She was on the berth deck, somewhere; footlockers were smashing about like boulders; shreds of hammocks caught at her limbs. Her brother sfvantskor sfvantskors had been near her when the Jistrolloq Jistrolloq rolled, and she could still hear them, crying to one another, only a shade less mad than the rest. Nurin was closest, and when the lamps went out he cried her name. There was an instant when she felt his hand, a clawing thing as violent as the sea, groping at her with broken fingers before the water tore him away. Then another hand seized her, Cayer Vispek's this time, and wrenched her up (or down?) through a hatch and onto a deck where air remained, where it was possible if agonizing to thrust the debris and bodies aside and raise one's head above the flood, where a pale green glow illuminated the horrors around her. The glow came from Sathek's Sceptre, wielded in desperation by Cayerad Hael. rolled, and she could still hear them, crying to one another, only a shade less mad than the rest. Nurin was closest, and when the lamps went out he cried her name. There was an instant when she felt his hand, a clawing thing as violent as the sea, groping at her with broken fingers before the water tore him away. Then another hand seized her, Cayer Vispek's this time, and wrenched her up (or down?) through a hatch and onto a deck where air remained, where it was possible if agonizing to thrust the debris and bodies aside and raise one's head above the flood, where a pale green glow illuminated the horrors around her. The glow came from Sathek's Sceptre, wielded in desperation by Cayerad Hael.

The elder sfvantskor sfvantskor was bleeding from the scalp. As the ship rolled over and over he was thrashed about like a rag doll. But he held on to the sceptre, and Neda groped towards him, to what purpose she could not say, and when she and Cayer Vispek were within ten feet the old man screeched one intelligible word: was bleeding from the scalp. As the ship rolled over and over he was thrashed about like a rag doll. But he held on to the sceptre, and Neda groped towards him, to what purpose she could not say, and when she and Cayer Vispek were within ten feet the old man screeched one intelligible word: 'Soglorigatre!'

With the word came a red light, a searing light, and a blast of steam that made her plunge again beneath the water. At once the dead face of Cayerad Hael's steward rose before her, the boy's mouth open wide as a well. Then something else burst in the ship and the body was sucked instantly away. Down, down Down, down they were plummeting, her ears all but bleeding from the pressure, and not knowing if she were fighting to live or to hasten a merciful death, Neda thrust her head above the surface again. they were plummeting, her ears all but bleeding from the pressure, and not knowing if she were fighting to live or to hasten a merciful death, Neda thrust her head above the surface again.

Cayerad Hael had called the red flame from the sceptre, just as he had on Sandplume, but now he had used it to burn a ragged hole in the side of the ship. He himself was scalded terribly, his hand a black stump fused for ever to the magic artefact, though for ever would be brief enough. But he lived yet, and commanded them yet; and most amazing of all, four of his sfvantskor sfvantskors remained alive to be commanded. Neda and Cayer Vispek, bobbing and thrashing towards him; and huge Jalantri close behind; and last of all, clear-eyed and furious, Malabron.

'Out, out, out!' Cayerad Hael was screaming, clinging with his good hand to the shattered planks and gesturing frantically with sceptre and stump. 'The crew's lost; they know it better than you! We must live for them, sfvantskor sfvantskors! Begone, begone!'

They hesitated. Later Neda would think of that hesitation as a kind of miracle: the lead spike of fearlessness had been driven so deep into their souls that even this horror, this free-fall to the Nine Pits, had not yet torn it out completely. But of course the Cayerad spoke true: they could not save even a single sailor, and it was sinful to prefer one's fancies to the cold facts of the world. Arqual had beaten them, and the Father remained unavenged. Those were the facts. Neda drew a breath (the salt.w.a.ter like a knife in each lung) and plunged towards the breech in the hull.

Cayer Vispek reached their leader first. He began to shout the Dying Prayer - 'I have come to the end of dreams. I bless only what is is--' but the sea (blasting in by yet another fissure) caught him full in the face. Still he managed the essential task: he drew the sceptre to his lips and kissed the dark crystal. And for the first time outside of trance, Neda saw the Father's magic at work.

The transformation took only an instant. A white glow came over Cayer Vispek, and a blurring of his features, and then like a flag snapped open in a storm he was a man no longer but a blue-black whale, a Cazencian, forty feet of writhing muscle and fluke and fine triangular teeth, and with a single twist of his body he was through the hull breach and away.

Jalantri was next. He tried to speak to their master, the second master to face death in as many months, but Cayerad Hael shook his head and pressed the sceptre to his mouth. And then Neda understood - the old man was not not surrendering to death. He would change too, and lead them on. All at once Neda was ashamed of her thoughts of despair. They were surrendering to death. He would change too, and lead them on. All at once Neda was ashamed of her thoughts of despair. They were sfvantskor sfvantskors unto death, but the first duty of a sfvantskor sfvantskor was to stay alive, lest the G.o.ds be deprived of a servant. was to stay alive, lest the G.o.ds be deprived of a servant.

When Jalantri changed, he became so huge that his tail-fluke ripped out another dozen feet of hull. Then he too was gone. Neda looked back at Malabron. Why wasn't he coming forwards, and why did he glare in that tortured way? Could he possibly have gone rigid with fear?

Cayerad Hael was submerged to his neck. 'Come, Malabron, Mebhar's child!' he gasped. 'You know what must be done!'

'Yes!' Malabron shouted back. 'Alone of us all!'

Neda had never heard anyone snap at Cayerad before, but there was no time to wonder. She reached Cayerad Hael, and the old man lowered the sceptre. Letting go of the ship, Neda pulled the crystal to her lips and kissed it, that sacred shard of the Black Casket, by whose power they would take the fight once more to the enemy.

The change was excruciatingly painful. Always before she had undergone the metamorphosis in trance, like all her brethren. In trance, the Father had commanded her to feel no pain, and in trance she had the power to obey. Now every sinew and corpuscle screamed in protest, as if she were being injected with venom at a million points. The burning! The burning! There could be no recovery from such pain, neither in the body nor the mind. It was as the Father had always warned them: some changes were for ever. There could be no recovery from such pain, neither in the body nor the mind. It was as the Father had always warned them: some changes were for ever.

But the agony vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only a welt of memory throbbing inside her - and Neda was a whale. Limbless, free of her shreds of clothes, warm in the icy water, and utterly blind except for the green light vanishing below.

She had changed before - into a sea turtle or a shark, when the Father was still perfecting the enchantment on Simja, in the last days before the wedding - and into this same whale's body, when they began the hunt for the Great Ship. It was the sort of magic only one as mighty as the Father could work with Sathek's Sceptre. Cayerad Hael, for all his learning, had been as helpless as a toddler when he tried to use the device, but the Father's spell went on working perfectly, month after month.

Or almost perfectly. Neda's defect remained, even when her body changed. In trance she could erase her pain, but not her memory. The others could never afterwards remember taking whale-form. Neda could never forget.

The green light dwindled. How were they to proceed? Were they to follow the Chathrand Chathrand until the weather cleared, or attempt to board her in the gale? They'd been about to discuss it when the Arquali vessel launched its attack; now they could not discuss it at all. Neda was not even certain that she would be able to hear her brethren's keening voices over the wind and waves. until the weather cleared, or attempt to board her in the gale? They'd been about to discuss it when the Arquali vessel launched its attack; now they could not discuss it at all. Neda was not even certain that she would be able to hear her brethren's keening voices over the wind and waves.

Obeying a sudden impulse, she jackknifed down into the darkness, pursuing the falling ship. Perhaps the others would gather in its dim light, and together they could set off after the enemy. She swam fast into the darkness, glad she was a creature made for diving, for black depths as much as bright surface waters. The strength in her new body was intoxicating.

There was Cayerad Hael, totally submerged, seconds from drowning; and there kissing the glowing sceptre was Malabron - tortured, doubting Malabron, changing before her eyes into a Cazencian like herself. Now their master would do the same - but would his wounds follow him into whale-form? And if they did, could he possibly survive?

Cayerad Hael raised the sceptre towards his lips. And the whale that had been Malabron surged forwards and closed his predator's teeth over the sceptre, and their master's arm, and bit down, and the world went completely black.

32.

The Mutineers

8 Umbrin 941 178th day from Etherhorde

The war between Plapp's Pier and Burnscove Boys took a novel twist when Kruno Burnscove awoke one morning in his bed (his gang had built him the little bed out of pilfered lumber, stuffed a mattress with hay stolen from the cows; he was too important to sleep in a hammock; besides, Darius Plapp had a bed) to find a severed hand dangling six inches above his forehead. It was black and withered and seemed to beckon him with the crook of one mortis-curled finger. On another finger the Burnscove Boys ring. Kruno let out an undignified squeal, and across the berth deck the Plapps replied with hoots and catcalls.

There was no mystery about the provenance of the hand. One of the Burnscovers killed in the storm had been mutilated in the surgical annex, before his body could be given to the sea. The crime was in retaliation for the looting of the three Plapps Pier dead. The only lingering question was where the hand had spent the previous twenty-five days.

This was the Chathrand Chathrand 's sixth week on the Nelluroq: the longest stretch between landfalls that many sailors had ever seen, and yet by Elkstem's calculus they had more than half of the crossing yet before them. After the severed-hand incident, Rose asked for volunteers to mediate a truce. Fiffengurt and Dr Chadfallow stepped forwards, and the next morning they brought the most influential Plapps and Burnscovers together in the wardroom. Mr Teggatz provided scones. 's sixth week on the Nelluroq: the longest stretch between landfalls that many sailors had ever seen, and yet by Elkstem's calculus they had more than half of the crossing yet before them. After the severed-hand incident, Rose asked for volunteers to mediate a truce. Fiffengurt and Dr Chadfallow stepped forwards, and the next morning they brought the most influential Plapps and Burnscovers together in the wardroom. Mr Teggatz provided scones.

Chadfallow came last to the wardroom, and he cut an impressive figure in the silk coat and dark purple cape of an Imperial envoy. He wore the ruby pendant of the Order of the Orb, and the bright gold fish-and-dagger medallion of a Defender of the Realm. The latter pendant, as most of them knew, was possessed by only a half-dozen living men, and was pinned to a man's chest by the Emperor alone, never a surrogate.

The adversaries sat at opposite ends of the wardroom table. Kruno Burnscove had just fired a particularly creative and personal epithet at his rival, and the doctor's appearance had made Darius Plapp lose his train of thought as he struggled to reply. He glared at Chadfallow, while the other gang members looked away in confusion, wondering what power if any remained to this friend of His Supremacy.

Chadfallow approached the furious gang leader. He rested one long-fingered hand upon the table before him, and let the silence grow.

'You are the eponymous Plapp?' he said at last.

Darius Plapp's face went rigid. He pushed back his chair and stood up. He spoke through gritted teeth.

'Who's eponymous? Yer mother's eponymous.'

The meeting went downhill from there. Rather than brokering peace, the doctor and the quartermaster were treated to comprehensive accounts of the murders, abductions, broken cease-fires, insults to virtuous gang mothers, slop buckets emptied on wedding parties, insinuations in mixed company that this or that leader's manhood was not as it should be, libellous publications and stolen pets. Fiffengurt walked out in disgust. Chadfallow laboured on straight through the afternoon and the dinner shift, but when the session finally collapsed at midnight the only agreement he had managed to wring from Plapp and Burnscove was that he himself was stubborn enough to join either gang.

Chadfallow's report to the captain noted that mental instability was a growing threat to the safety of the ship.

Two nights later, as evening fell, the now-familiar noise of the 25-foot seas was shattered by the cries of the lookout: On the bow! Hard on the bow! Great G.o.ds, what is it? On the bow! Hard on the bow! Great G.o.ds, what is it?

Men stampeded to the rail, and at once began to shout with wonder, and not a little fear. Stretched across the southern horizon, as far as the eye could see, was a ribbon of pale red light. It was not quite the colour of sunset, nor of fire; but there was something about it that reminded one of fire: a trembling, flickering quality. A volcano? No, there was no ash, and no telltale rumble. The ribbon reached as high as the lid of clouds on the horizon, so that it looked a bit like a glowing sword, held between the blue-grey tongs of sea and sky. How far away it might have been was difficult to tell. What was certain was that it lay directly across their path.

The ribbon burned on through the night. When morning broke, it swiftly faded, and by the time the sun was fully risen it was no more to be seen. But all through the night the watch-captains had observed how Arunis stood on the forecastle, gazing steadily southward, face bathed in the glow, eyes ravenous with expectation.

'I've imagined seeing you dead,' said Diadrelu. 'Or more likely, hearing that you had died, and never seeing for myself. As it was with Talag. I've imagined my own death, likelier still. But never did I think to see you locked in the brig.'

Diadrelu stepped through the iron bars. Hercol watched her from the darkness, sitting back against the wall, smiling through his seven-week beard. It was hours past midnight; except for the pair of Turachs outside the compartment door, the mercy deck was deserted. Two cells away, the captain of the whaler, Magritte, was talking in his sleep, a low, despairing babble. He had boiled over during his first interview with Rose after the sinking of the Sanguine Sanguine, calling him murderer, pirate, Pit-fiend, devil-swine, and when he paused for breath Rose informed him that he would serve a week in the brig for each insult, plus a fortnight for his behaviour in Rose's quarters, where he had displayed 'verbal incontinence' and a tendency to gulp his food.

Hercol for his part never seemed but half asleep. The ixchel woman had come to see him with increasing frequency, not quite certain what she was looking for, and often enough forced to depart without speaking to him, if Magritte proved restless, or the Turachs left the door ajar. And though she moved silent as dust on a puff of wind, each time she reached his cell she found his eyes open, and that slight smile of expectation on his haggard face.

And yet with each visit her worry grew. Hercol's mouth was dry; he was using a good part of his water ration to clean a wound on his chest. There were bloodstains on his shirt near the collar; when he moved a cloud of flies lifted briefly from the spot. Does he know about ixchel eyes? she wondered. Does he know that I can see him, better than any human could?