The potion worked. Nearly a year passed without a mind-fit. The fact that he would learn no more languages-magically, anyway-had seemed a small price to pay. But thanks to Chadfallow, the Gift and its horrors were back. Any regrets at his decision to break ties with the doctor vanished when he remembered that smell of custard apples, that ghastly squawking. More bitter for you than me. How could he have done such a thing?
Let the fits come at night, he thought. Not while I'm on duty, please!
Shouts and Whispers
1 Vaqrin 941
9:19 a.m.
In any case (Pazel told himself, climbing the gangway), there was no need to worry for several days. He had a new ship to discover, a new life to create.
Halfway to the topdeck someone spoke his name. Pazel turned to see the small, turbaned boy walking just behind him. The boy grinned, and spoke almost in a whisper.
"Where'd you learn that language, eh? Tell the truth!"
"I don't know it," said Pazel, unsettled. "Like I told Fiffengurt-someone translated for me."
"Rubbish!" said the boy, and held out his hand. "I have a nose for lies, and that wasn't a very clever one. You're Pazel, you said? My name's Neeps."
"Neeps?"
The small boy's face turned serious. "A ridiculous name, of course."
"No, not at all."
"It means 'thunder' in Sollochi."
"Ah," said Pazel, although he already knew.
"Actually, it's short for Neeparvasi," said the boy, "but you can't be a Neeparvasi in the Empire of Arqual. The Emperor's favorite concubine had a son named Neeparvasi who disgraced himself somehow-used the wrong fork at dinner, maybe, or stepped on the Queen Mother's foot. His Supremacy sent him off to the Valley of the Plague, and forbade anyone to mention him, or remind him the boy had ever existed. And so the name's on a forbidden list, and I'm just Neeps Undrabust."
"Pazel Pathkendle," said Pazel. "How did you end up ashore?"
"Dismissed for fighting. What could I do? The blary lout insulted my grandmother."
Pazel wasn't eager to befriend someone who turned insults into fistfights. But he had to admit he was glad to meet another boy from the margins of the Empire.
"There's a lot of us," he whispered, looking over the crowd of boys.
Neeps caught his meaning. "Newly conquered folk? Yes, lots, and that's very strange. Arqualis don't trust anyone with an accent, or skin like yours, or one of these." He tapped his turban. "In fact they hate you a little, or a lot, until your country's been part of the Empire for a hundred years-fully digested, as my old captain used to say. Well, Sollochstal's not digested, I can tell you. Not by a long shot."
His voice was proud but not ill-humored, and Pazel found himself smiling.
"They think I'm just tanned, you know. About half the time."
"And then you open your mouth."
Pazel laughed, nodding. Ormali was a singsong language-and despite all his efforts its rolling cadences emerged in every tongue he spoke.
As they neared the top of the gangway the noises of the ship grew louder. Surging ahead of the boys, Mr. Fiffengurt seized a buntline and pulled himself up on the rail, giving an expansive wave.
"Aboard! Aboard! Step lively, now!"
Like goats crossing a stream, the boys leaped onto the deck. Pazel would never forget what he saw in those first moments. A city, he thought. It's a city afloat!
They were boarding amidships. Here the vessel was so wide that the Eniel could have sat athwart her without touching the rails. Fore and aft she seemed a broad wooden avenue, crowded with barrels, boxes, timbers, heaps of sailcloth, spools of cordage and chain. Swarming through these obstacles were hundreds upon hundreds of people-sailors, stevedores, customs officers, tearful sweethearts, efficient wives, a man selling little scraps of sandrat fur ("Nobody drowns with sandrat fur!"), monks leaving their holy thumbprints in ash on the foreheads of believers, two bald men fighting over a chicken, a tattoo artist etching a boar on a burly chest. The tarboys stood frozen, awed. They were the only stationary beings aboard.
A second headcount, and Fiffengurt led them aft, past the mainmast, the longboat, the tonnage hatch yawning like a mineshaft. Clerks and midshipmen shoved by without a glance. High on the yards the sailors looked distant indeed, and Pazel was not surprised to see Mr. Uskins inspecting their work with the aid of a telescope.
At length they reached the stern port ladderway, and Fiffengurt led them into the belly of the ship. One floor down was the main deck, every bit as crowded as the topdeck above, but quite a bit hotter and smellier. Next came the upper gun deck, where the ship's cattle were temporarily stockaded, wearing looks of bewilderment Pazel found deeply justified. Farther forward the boys caught a glimpse of the cannon themselves. They were ferocious guns, tree-trunk thick and scarred by countless years of fire and salt. "Grandfather-guns," said Fiffengurt. "Terrible weapons, to be sure. But the bow carronades throw shot like prize pumpkins. Eighty-pounders. Down we go."
On the lower gun deck a sharp smell of frying onions told them the galley was near. Through the open bulkhead Pazel glimpsed it: a steamy compartment full of pots and saucepans and hanging ladles, where a squadron of cooks busied themselves around a cast-iron stove in which one might have roasted a buffalo. "Mr. Teggatz!" shouted Fiffengurt, barely pausing. "Thirty-six for breakfast, plus the old boys! Now, if you please!"
One more descent, and they stood in darkness. Fiffengurt strode away from them, as sure and quick as he'd been on the daylit topdeck, and Pazel wondered if he had committed the whole ship's plan to memory. A minute later they heard him striking at a flint, and then a lamp sputtered to life.
"Berth deck," said Fiffengurt. "You'll sleep right here, lads, and eat at the rear of the main mess, past the deckhands. You'll have light from the hatches in good weather, and the windscoops freshen the air a bit, once we're under way. Never mind the smell; you won't notice it in a day or two. No windows in your compartment, but if you don't act like hooligans the sailors may leave the doors open on their own berth, and you'll have a bit more light. Come on, in with you."
By the dim glow of walrus oil they explored their new home: a musty wooden cavern, its far corners lost in the gloom. Massive stanchions braced the ceiling, which was low enough for the largest boys to touch. Every beam and bulkhead wall, and even the long dining tables, were carved from the same gigantic, immeasurably ancient kind of tree. The air was heavy; it smelled like a barn sealed tight against a storm.
Fiffengurt rapped on a bulkhead. "Cloudcore oak. Strong as any wood in Alifros, but lighter by half. The gun and berth decks are almost solid cloudcore. We don't know half the secrets of the Chathrand, lads, but here's one we grasp well enough. Not that it does us much good: there are no more cloudcore oaks. The last fifty trees grow on Mount Etheg in a secret place. They harvest one tree a century, for essential repairs to this gray lady."
Footsteps rang on the stairs behind them. "Ah, Teggatz! Very timely!" said Fiffengurt. "My lads, be good to this man or he'll poison you: he's our head cook."
Teggatz was portly, with round red cheeks. His eyes were small and recessed nearly to the point of invisibility. He laughed, rubbing his hands together nervously. The boys waited, the laugh went on, the hands moved faster and faster. At last Teggatz spoke, in a gleeful, soft explosion:
"Shepherd's pie!"
"Shepherd's pie, is it?" said Fiffengurt. "Fancy that! Bring it on, then!"