Mugstur leaped to his feet.

'Yes!' he cried. 'I am ready! We are all ready! It is time for deeds! We will show you, Mistress of Heaven! After me, rats, the hour is come!'

He turned and flew from the chamber. Their foes forgotten, the other rats pursued him. Their cries were taken up by the horde in the outer compartment: 'The hour is come! The hour is come!'

Thasha put her arms over Pazel's shoulders. 'Well,' she said, leaning into him.

It was her old voice; he could have wept with relief. He looked her over, head to foot. She had touched the Nilstone; she should have been dead. And yet she was not even visibly wounded, although he was rather sure she would collapse if he released her. 'What . . . what did you do?' he whispered.

Thasha looked up at the Nilstone in the s.h.a.ggat's hand. 'It was nothing I'd planned, believe me. I just thought it was the only chance we had.'

Beside them, Lord Talag (dropped by the rats in their haste) began to moan and twist with great urgency. Taliktrum bent and slashed at his father's bonds.

Pazel looked out through the doorway. 'Where in Pitfire did they go? What did you tell them?'

'Nothing!' Thasha protested. 'I just said obey me obey me, didn't you hear? I don't know what command they think they're obeying.'

Talag retched and shouted, tearing at his gag. Taliktrum wept openly as he cut him free. 'You lived,' he managed to say. 'The rat taunted me, said he had something I wanted more than life itself. I never dreamed it could be you.'

The gag parted, and Talag spat it out. He made a raw and painful sound.

'Don't try to speak too soon, m'lord,' said one of the Dawn Soldiers.

Talag shoved him away. He bolted upright, even though his legs were still tied to the staff. 'The rats!' he croaked, his voice a husk. 'They go to die! Stop them, girl, stop them! Bring them back!'

'Father, you're ill!' cried Taliktrum. 'They're our enemies, even though they kept you alive!'

'Ill, am I?' snapped Talag. He drew his hand roughly over Taliktrum's chest, then rubbed his thumb and finger together. 'Lamp oil, you fool! Every rat aboard has bathed bathed in it! They're killing themselves! They're going to in it! They're killing themselves! They're going to free their souls upon the air ! free their souls upon the air ! They're going to heaven on a plume of smoke!' They're going to heaven on a plume of smoke!'

The horror of what he was saying struck Pazel like a club. Thasha gasped and sprinted from the room. Pazel chased after her, amazed that she had found yet another reserve of strength. 'Mugstur!' she shouted. 'Stop! I command you!'

But the power had left her voice, and the rats were far away. As they neared the Silver Stair Pazel realised he did not even know if they had run up or down. They skidded to a halt, listening.

'They're beneath us!' said Pazel, starting to plunge downwards. But Thasha caught his arm, and he listened again.

He cursed. 'And above us! Mugstur could have gone either way, and--Oh, above us! Mugstur could have gone either way, and--Oh, d.a.m.n it all d.a.m.n it all ! Look!' ! Look!'

Three hundred feet away cross the central compartment, flames leaped suddenly in the gloom. They were rats, burning like living torches, and they were running this way and that, biting one another, setting each other alight. Those not yet on fire screamed at those that were: 'This way! Bless me, cleanse me, brother!' Then twenty or more rat voices rose in song: Faith on fire, smoke on high, Rin's first Angel, see me die.

Rise in ash to heaven's nest, Rin's Rat-Angel, love me best!

Pazel would have found it hard to imagine things getting much worse. But they did, considerably. Thasha was still holding his arm, and when he looked at her he saw tears of frustrated rage.

'No good,' she said, nearly sobbing. 'I'm no good, I wreck everything, you're about to die, do you love me?'

'What?'

Thasha fell asleep in his arms.

He shed her father's sword, and thrust Ildraquin through his belt in its place. He caught her under the arms. What could he do, and what did it matter, now? It didn't, he thought. The fog was in his brain again; he felt stupid and slow. But he would not abandon her. He would not let her burn among the rats.

The first climb was easy. He kept her body high, and bore much of her weight against his chest. But after the berth deck he slipped in blood or oil, and fell painfully, and when he lifted her again she felt heavier, somehow. At the lower gun deck he had to put her down and clear dead rats from the ladderway. The upper gun deck was bright with flames.

When he emerged into the open air the scene was infernal. The sky throbbed red in the south; lightning crackled over the still-closer Vortex. At least fifty rats had clearly made straight for the topdeck, and set themselves aflame when they reached it. Many had not stopped there, but had pulled themselves burning up the masts and shrouds. The tarred rigging s.n.a.t.c.hed at the flame; already the mizzen topsail was alight.

Hallucination? thought Pazel hopefully. Then he gave a sobbing laugh. The stench of burned fur, the wafting heat, the swollen, blazing animals leaping crazed from the yardarms: it was all too abominably real. And so was blane blane. He stumbled, rose with effort, dragged Thasha a few more yards. Then he sat down and propped her head on his lap, brushed her dirty hair from her eyes, and kissed her the way he'd wanted to for so long.

This is where it ends, Thasha.

The flame was widespread, fore and aft. Somewhere ixchel were shouting, cursing, muttering their ambiguous prayers. He thought, My mind is the ship. Three hundred cabins full of smoke, full of fog. Nothing stirring much longer. No more fighting to be done. My mind is the ship. Three hundred cabins full of smoke, full of fog. Nothing stirring much longer. No more fighting to be done.

A rat lumbered towards them in flames, shrieking. Pazel watched it, too sleepy even to move his hand to Ildraquin. The creature stopped a few yards from their feet and bowed its head, and Pazel realised he was looking at Master Mugstur. The white rat settled on to his thick stomach and lay burning like a hideous beacon in the wind. Most of the others were already dead.

Pazel bent and kissed her once more. He closed his eyes, shutting out the world, shutting out everything but Thasha's lips, her gentle breathing. They should have done more of this. What exactly had they been waiting for?

The fog crept into the last chamber of his brain. He rested his forehead on her shoulder, and was still.

And then he raised his head, mouth agape, and blinked at the raging fire. And very much as a question he spoke the Master-Word.

39.

Cold Comfort

He stood alone on a blackened ship, among the sleeping and the slain. Ashes, stone cold, were blowing from tattered sails that a moment ago had been sheets of fire. The Chathrand Chathrand pitched and wallowed on the swells, revolving, perhaps accelerating. He looked for Thasha but could not find her. The deep thunder of the Vortex was the only sound. pitched and wallowed on the swells, revolving, perhaps accelerating. He looked for Thasha but could not find her. The deep thunder of the Vortex was the only sound.

He staggered to portside, gazing at the Red Storm, so close now that he could make out the texture of the light within it. Somehow it was both gaseous and gla.s.s-sharp, cloud and broken mirror at once. He wondered what it would do to them, if they reached it at all.

Portside was east when he started walking, but with the spin of the ship it was west before he arrived. He turned on his heel and ran in the opposite direction, and was quick enough this time to glimpse the Vortex, hideously close, a malevolent hole too big to contemplate, inhaling everything. It was a flaw the size of Rukmast, an obscene violation of the shape of the sea.

Not out of the saucepot yet.

An ixchel raced across the quarterdeck. Pazel raised a hand in greeting, but he might as well have been a shred of flapping sailcloth for all the notice the runner took. The ash coated the deck like dirty snow. He came to where Fiffengurt lay sleeping, bent and wiped his face, and shook him gently.

'Wake up.'

Fiffengurt slept on. Ten yards or so from the quartermaster a boy he didn't recognise lay in a strange, half-seated position, bending over another figure, who looked in danger of being smothered. Pazel crossed the deck and pulled the boy upright by the shirt.

Oh.

He jerked his hand away. The boy fell back on the deck, and it was him, it was Pazel himself. Asleep like everyone else on the deck. He lay with Thasha's head in his lap, just where he'd spoken the Master-Word.

He felt a slight tingling at his shoulder, and realised that he had sensed his own touch. And yes, even as he stood here, he was dimly aware of the weight of Thasha's head upon his thigh.

He thought a walk might do him good, and descended the Silver Stair to the upper gun deck. The smells were hideous. Scorched blood and snuffed-out rat. He gagged and ducked into the stateroom.

Neeps lay where Hercol had left him, on the rug between Jorl and Suzyt. All three were snoring. There was not a trace of fire damage. Pazel felt a startling affection for the familiar chamber, where no enemy had entered yet. It was becoming home.

He continued his descent. Berth deck, orlop, mercy. There he spotted at least fifty ixchel, running towards the tonnage hatch, dragging a pair of wheelblocks and a long rope. He shouted again, but by now he didn't expect a reply.

His wandering took him at length to the brig. The outer door had been shattered by the rats, but inside he found the cells intact. A few of the iron bars had been bloodied and slightly bent, but none had given way. In the first cell Captain Magritte lay sleeping. Pazel hoped he had been one of the first affected. It didn't bear thinking about what the man had had to go through while still awake.

The next cell had a small panel missing from the ceiling, and a hole letting into some dim cabin on the orlop above. Hercol's escape route. He had used it in time to save Thasha's life, perhaps Pazel's as well. But it hadn't let him save the woman he loved.

Pazel looked into the third cell, and gave a shout of startled joy. 'Felthrup!'

There he lay: enormous, mutated, asleep. Pazel could not reach him, nor open the bars. Felthrup had drunk some of Hercol's water, he remembered. What would become of him when he woke? Was he as mad as the other rats?

When the smell became too much for him, Pazel dragged himself back to the topdeck. Frightened but powerless with fascination, he returned to the spot where he and Thasha lay sleeping. What was stranger - the sight of his own body, or the fact that he was accepting it, that he was able to contemplate it as something apart from himself, and not go mad ? He wasn't wasn't going mad, was he? going mad, was he?

'No, Pazel,' said a voice behind him. 'You're merely learning. Though at times the process feels like insanity, true enough.'

Pazel knew that voice. And now astonishment was a good thing, a joyful thing, and he held still a moment to savour it. 'Ramachni,' he said aloud, 'you have no idea how much I've missed you.'

He turned: the black mink was standing a few yards away, beside the sleeping Fiffengurt. The mage was even smaller than Pazel remembered, a fragile animal he might have lifted with one hand. He looked at Pazel with the deliberate stillness of a monk. Pazel walked up to him and knelt down.

'I'm not mad, and I'm not dead either. I can tell that much.'

Ramachni showed his teeth, which was how he smiled.

'Are you really back?' asked Pazel. 'Back to stay?'

'No,' said Ramachni. 'In fact you could say that I'm cheating. When I taught you the Master-Words - and how well you choose the moments of their use, lad, my compliments - I gained the power to know precisely when you speak them, and to observe you in the aftermath. Observe you: no more. But because you were literally falling asleep as you spoke, I was able to turn that observation into a travel opportunity, and to meet you here in dream. Even better, you are not bound like Felthrup by any dream-erasing spell. You should have no trouble remembering this chat.'

'Who put that spell on Felthrup? Arunis?'

Ramachni nodded. 'He attacked and tortured our friend in his sleep, for months. I put a stop to that, but I cannot remove the forgetting-charm until I return in the flesh.'

'Flesh!' said Pazel, his voice suddenly altered, charged with disgust. He gave an involuntary flinch. 'I've just remembered something. I almost fell asleep on this deck, Ramachni, but I woke up when I thought of the Master-Word. And when I spoke it I saw something in the sky. It was like a black cloud, but thicker, almost solid. And it was quivering, like . . . meat, like horrible living flesh. It was the ugliest thing I've ever seen.'

Ramachni gave him a long, silent stare - a frightened stare, Pazel would have said, if such were possible for the mage. At last Ramachni drew a deep breath, and said, 'You have seen the Agoroth Asru Agoroth Asru, the Swarm of Night. I am sorry you had to look on it. At least your glimpse was brief.'

'What is this Swarm?' Pazel asked. 'Arunis was shouting about it on Dhola's Rib. I'd never heard of it before.'

'With any luck you never shall again. The Swarm of Night is not only the ugliest thing you will ever see, but almost certainly the most destructive. We call it a swarm because it can resemble a thick cloud of insects, and because once inside it a living creature suffers pain like ten thousand stings. It does not belong in this world but in the dark regions: the land of death and neighbouring kingdoms.'

'Then why did I see it? What was it doing here?'

'It is not in this world, Pazel - not yet. If it were I should sense it beyond any doubt. Yet the Swarm does threaten Alifros, and has done so for centuries. Every day it comes closer to breaking through, and there are those like Arunis who would hasten its arrival. I think you saw it just outside this world and pressing in, like a beast pressing its muzzle through a door we must hold shut. It was your use of the Master-Word that unlocked the door. As I told you once, such words strain the very spell-fabric of creation.'

'I don't understand,' said Pazel. 'When I spoke the first word the sun went dark for a moment. This time I saw . . . that that. But why? You and Arunis cast spells that are much bigger than putting out a fire, and the world doesn't go mad.'

'Why do you think they exhaust us so, Pazel ? Only a small part of a spell's energy goes to creating the effect we wish, the fire bolt or levitation or wind where there is none. The rest goes into containing the damage that would otherwise occur. That is what makes a spell a spell spell. If magic is gunpowder, then a spell is the solid cannon that directs the explosion where we need it, and shields us from the blast. A Master-Word, on the other hand, is like a gigantic powder-charge loaded into a small cannon, and fired by someone who has never so much as struck a match.'

'This time it appears that a strand of the world's spell-weave actually gave way. Have no fear; it is a small wound in a healthy body, and will repair itself. But I am glad that you won't be speaking your last word for a while.'

'Especially since I have no idea what it does,' said Pazel. 'A word that "blinds to give new sight"? What does that mean? I'm no closer to guessing than I was the day I learned it.'

Ramachni looked at him strangely again. Was that pity in his eyes?

'There will be no guessing, if we ever reach that point,' said Ramachni. 'Which is not to say that your decision will be easy. The first two words tested your courage. Not that I had any wish to test you. I do not play such games. But in fact you had to be strong enough not to waste them, by using them too soon. The last word, I think, will require courage just to speak at all.'

'Wonderful,' said Pazel. 'Is that what you came here to tell me?'

'No,' said Ramachni. 'In fact I didn't come to tell you a thing. I came because you made it possible, and above all I came to listen. So tell me, how goes the fight? Where are the Nilstone, and Arunis? Above all, how are our friends?'

Pazel's look was incredulous. 'You don't know?'

'Pazel, you are asleep on a ship in the heart of the Nelluroq. I am asleep in a distant land, in a healing pool under a vertical mile of stone. I can see you, and a bubble of light around you the size of a woodshed, but all the rest is darkness. We are both dreaming - only when a mage shares your dream, things become possible that otherwise would not be. Choice, for instance. I hope you will choose to bring me up to date.'

Pazel looked in the direction of the Vortex. 'Is time pa.s.sing?'

'Always,' said Ramachni.

He would have to be quick about it, then. But where to start? With the worst, with the part that was still misery to think of. 'Diadrelu,' he said, 'was murdered by her clan.'

Ramachni closed his eyes, letting his head sink down upon his forepaws. 'Go on,' he said.

Once Pazel began to talk it was a relief. But as he skimmed over all that had happened since Ramachni's departure he felt a growing shame. What had they managed to do, after all, besides hara.s.s the conspirators, and fight Arunis to a draw? For all the effect they'd had on the voyage they might as well have spent the past months locked up with the steerage pa.s.sengers.

Ramachni shook his head. 'Things are not as dark as you believe,' he said. But his voice was low and sad.

'I'm not a fool, Ramachni,' said Pazel tightly. 'I can see how dark things are. We had a task. The Red Wolf chose seven of us to get rid of the Nilstone. You yourself said that we'd all have something vital to do, something essential essential. Didn't you?'

'Yes,' said Ramachni.

'Well Dri was one of the seven, and she's gone. That means we're failing. Why don't you tell me the blary truth. truth.' Pazel rose and paced a few steps away, shaking with frustration. The low roar of the Vortex throbbed in his ears. Suddenly he stopped dead. He took a deep breath, and spoke without turning.

'I'm sorry. I can't believe I said that. I know we mustn't fail.'

'You already have,' said Ramachni.

Pazel whirled around. Ramachni was standing as still as before, watching him with those black eyes that always made him think of bottomless pits - yet never of cruelty, until this moment.

'Are you laughing at me?' said Pazel.

'No,' said the mage, 'I am telling the truth, as you demanded. And the truth is that I don't see how you can do as Erithusme hoped you would, when she built the Red Wolf. One of the seven has died, and yes, all seven had something vital to do. I cannot tell you what, for I don't know myself: the plan was hers, not mine. But now I think it very likely that Arunis will succeed in finding a way to use the Nilstone. If he does, he will set fire to this garden called Alifros, and there will be no Master-Word mighty enough to put that fire out.'