As soon as the words left his mouth the creature loosened its grip. The augrong gaped at Pazel. Two hundred sailors gaped at the augrong. And in the moment of silence that followed, Mr. Uskins laughed aloud.
"Eat him, then, you daft dirty lizard! We need Frix, but tarboys are a penny a pound! And you'll do this ship a favor if you can choke down that Ormali runt."
But Uskins had given up on his pseudo-Augronga, and the creature paid no heed to his Arquali. Instead it listened to the rest of Pazel's explanation. Then in deep-chested grunts (and using the foulest metaphor to refer to Mr. Uskins) it relayed the message to its companion. The short-eared creature sighed like the wind.
"Anger for nothing," it said. "Battle with smoke."
Its arms fell to its sides. All about the harbor, and aboard the Chathrand, men echoed the sigh. The fight was over.
Pazel, however, still hung from the creature's arm. Twisting, he found himself looking sidelong at the crowded quay. It was disturbing to be watched by so many silent people. Faces leaped out at him: a one-armed veteran, a woman with a basket of melons on her head, a lean man with a fighter's muscles holding the chains of two enormous blue dogs.
From this last figure Pazel's eyes slid to a striking older man in Imperial navy uniform, leaning from a carriage window. He had a neat beard and white sideburns, and his bright blue eyes studied Pazel keenly. It was a moment before Pazel noticed that the carriage was the most elegant he had ever seen.
The old man frowned, stuck his head farther out through the window and looked up. Following his gaze, Pazel found himself looking at a girl his own age. She had climbed to the roof of the carriage for a better view. She wore a man's clothing-jaquina shirt, breeches, a broad leather belt. She was extremely pretty, with a preposterous amount of straight golden hair falling to her waist, but her arms looked strong as a tarboy's. She also looked him straight in the eye, which was something noble-born girls never did. In fact, she smiled, a bright smile full of laughter-or mockery? Startled and suddenly shy, Pazel dropped his gaze.
"No bones smashed," boomed the augrong suddenly, and set Pazel on the deck with a mighty thump. Pazel stumbled, dizzy and aching from head to toe. Neeps and Dastu caught him by the arms. But the rest of the crew backed away from him slightly, as if wondering what would next come out of his mouth.
Then Pazel saw Uskins glaring down at him from the quarterdeck.
"A meddler," said the first mate. "A clown. Do you know the captain's policy for dealing with clowns?"
There was an awful silence. Uskins crooked a finger, beckoning Pazel near.
It was at that instant that Mr. Frix, Firecracker Frix, bounded up the gangway. He had just been hauled out of the bay by sailors ashore, and seawater ran from his ears and shirt and breeches. Leaping onto the deck, he pointed at Pazel and let out a great soggy whoop.
"Saved!" he cried. "That boy saved me life! Bless him, oh bless his wee little lion's heart! Hooray!" He capered in his private puddle, wet beard flapping, and waved both hands over his head. Then he scrambled onto a rum barrel and sang out again: "Saved by the tarry, the tar-tar-tarry-boy! How's that for a wonder? Come on, boys! Three cheers for little Lionheart! Hip, hip-"
"Stand down, Mr. Frix!"
No mistaking that voice, which crashed through the hubbub like a cannonball. Even the augrongs turned their heads. Captain Rose was storming across the Plaza as quickly as his game leg allowed, face shining with wrath, a carriage stopped behind him with its door flapping still. He waved as he neared the gangway: "To your stations, you gawking gulls! Clear out! Give a man room to board his vessel! And bring that other beast up after me! What fool separated them?"
All eyes snapped to the first mate. Uskins glowered and chewed his lips, but he put on a look of humble martyrdom when Rose's own eyes found him.
"Take the augrongs below, Mr. Uskins," said Rose grimly. "I will hear your report ere we leave the capital." Then the captain raised his voice to an ear-shattering bellow: "All hands! Welcome stations! Trumpets! Pennants! Hats! First watch to the yards! Move, you port-shoddy sheep! His Excellency's waiting to board!"
Everywhere, men flew to their tasks. Then Pazel understood: the man in the elegant coach was none other than Admiral Isiq, His Supremacy's new ambassador to Simja. And that blond girl, whose smile had left him feeling such a fool? Could that be his daughter?
Turnstile
Art thou my bloodkin, lost to storm these sundering years?
Shall I name thee brother?
My soul has shed the habit of love; trust is a thing forgotten.
Come not upon me silent, brother, lest you frighten me:
Who knows what I'll do then?
Fear this blade in my hand, brother, as I have learned to fear it.
9 Vaqrin 941
The old admiral had sent word: he wanted little fuss about his boarding. This was quite unlike the Eberzam Isiq of old, who returned from battles on half-ruined warships to a thunder of guns and a throng of well-wishers filling the Plaza of the Palmeries. To the reporter from the Etherhorde Mariner, a dumpy little man in a top hat with a bedraggled bow, it was all very suspicious. Why were there no public announcements? he demanded, beetling toward the ship at Isiq's elbow. Why was Chathrand outfitted in Sorrophran? Where were the banners, the podiums, the Imperial orchestra?
"There are trumpets on the quarterdeck," growled Isiq. "And more than enough sightseers."
"Not half the usual number," countered the reporter. "Why, you might as well be stealing away in the dead of night!"
"With this morning's Mariner announcing it to the whole city?"
"We barely learned of it in time! Your Excellency, a moment, I beg you. We have it reliably that a man was killed last night in your garden. Ah! Your face admits the truth! Who was he-a cutthroat? An assassin?"
Isiq plowed forward, scowling. "A common tramp. He should not have been killed, but he made blundering advances toward Lady Thasha. Our dogs brought him down, and the house guard put an arrow in his chest. That is all."
"Your house guard refused to speak to us, Excellency. Was it the Emperor himself who demanded such secrecy? There are rumors to the effect."
"Of course there are. Your readers survive on a diet of little else. Good day, sir."
Sightseers were indeed packing the waterfront, and more hurried into the Plaza by the minute. High above on the Chathrand, the crew stood at rigid attention. The trumpeters played an old naval song, chosen specially by Uskins because it had been popular thirty years ago in the Sugar War, when he guessed Admiral Isiq's sailing days had begun (he was quite right, but the memories the tune evoked were of scurvy and insects and boot-rotted feet).
A lizard's tongue of red carpet shot down the gangway. The admiral looked as if he would rather kick it aside. But up he tottered; and holding his arm was Syrarys, chin high, smiling ambiguously, in a sheer white dress that magnified the luster of her dark skin. From the deck Mr. Fiffengurt took one look at her and thought, This will be a hazardous trip.
Behind them came Thasha, with two books (a Mzithrini grammar and The Merchant's Polylex) in her arms and a venomous scowl on her face. Around the quay people pointed, murmuring: "There she is, the Treaty Bride, the Emperor's gift to the savages. Getting married! Poor pretty thing! She has to marry so there'll be no more war."
"Lady Thasha!"
It was the Mariner reporter. Thasha turned him an irritated glance. I won't go through with it! she was tempted to shout. I'll run off with pirates before I'll marry a coffin worshipper! Print that!