“That’s about to change,” said Haddismal.
Drawing his Turach broadsword, he stepped forward and thrust it at Taliktrum, the blade horizontal, in the ritual challenge of the Arquali military. “We can have this out right now,” he said. “You’re holdin’ hostages, our true captain among them. But there ain’t a man on this ship-or a woman either-who hasn’t stared down death these past few months. And whether you kill them or not, you’ll have doomed yourselves. We’ll smoke you out of your holes and deal with you the Arquali way, and your people will die cursing the day they ever heard the name Tliktrum-Talakitrim-”
“Taliktrum, you great oaf,” muttered Bolutu.
“Withhold the berries, my lord,” said Myett. “See how fierce they are when their people feel the claws of the poison ripping at their lungs.”
Alyash drew his sword in turn. “You think you’ve got us by the gills, don’t you?” he said.
Taliktrum nodded. “Exactly right, Bosun: we have you by the gills. My father, Lord Talag, is never careless with detail, and he planned this campaign for twelve years.”
“And the Secret Fist planned for forty,” said Haddismal. “You have no muckin’ idea who you’re dealin’ with. The water emergency’s over, crawly, and so’s your little game. We’ll drop this ship to the seabed before we let ourselves be run by ship lice.”
“Leave bigotry to one side, all of you,” said Hercol. “It will not achieve the ends you want. We are all thinking creatures, and each of us bears a soul.” His voice was strained, as though he was making a great effort to heed his own words. Facing Taliktrum, he said, “I will never address you as ‘captain’ or ‘commander,’ for you have no right to either title. But your own people count you a lord, and so shall I for the present.
“Lord Taliktrum, your prisoners are in squalor. Thirty days they have been crammed in that space. They are filthy, sore and maddened by inactivity. They sleep poorly and eat little better. You showed a moment’s kindness when we first spotted land: you gave a temporary antidote to the captain, and let him walk free an hour upon the quarterdeck. Will you not extend that kindness to the others? Let one or two out at a time, to breathe the free air, wash themselves, regain their dignity, if only for an hour.”
Shouts of agreement from the humans. Taliktrum crossed his arms and waited for silence.
“Cages are abhorrent to our people,” he said. “You giants made sure we learned to hate them to our core. And unlike you we are not needlessly cruel. Besides, the antidote is flawless. What have we to lose? Three, yes, three hostages at a time will have their hour’s freedom. The women first, and the youngest.”
Pazel felt his heart lift. He caught Thasha’s eye and saw the same excitement. The youngest hostages were Neeps and Marila.
Hercol bowed ever so slightly to Taliktrum. “Now to another matter,” he said. “We cannot stay here, Lord Taliktrum. The Chathrand is hidden behind a rocky islet barely taller than her mainmast, and that is not safety enough. If the armada had passed a few miles closer to the village, we might all be in prison now, or worse.”
“I know that,” said Taliktrum. “Of course we must sail. The question is, where?”
“And before that, the question’s how,” said Fiffengurt. “As in, how far can we get? We have water but precious little food. The rats fouled most of the grain in the hold, and devoured everything in the smokehouse, and ate through the tin walls of the bread room. And all the animals are dead.”
“You lie,” shouted a voice from among the ixchel standing on the hay bales. “I heard a goat bleating on the orlop deck this morning, m’lord, as plain as I hear you now.”
“Can’t be,” said Big Skip, shaking his head. “Teggatz and I did the inventory. There are carcasses we couldn’t account for, true enough. But they must have been burned to cinders, or else hurled themselves over the sides. There’s no blessed way we missed a goat.”
“Goat or no goat, we’ll soon be hungry,” said Pazel.
“That’s right, Muketch,” said Haddismal, “and without decent food the men won’t be fit to fight, should it come to that.”
“We lack medical supplies as well,” said Fulbreech.
“And the ship needs repairs,” said Fiffengurt. “That foremast is only a jury-rig-one more hard blow and she’ll fall. And probably take the kevels and the chase-beams with her. The gun carriages want attention, too.”
Suddenly Uskins giggled, loud and shrill. “Fit to fight!” he said. “Who do you think to fight, Sergeant Haddismal? That armada, maybe? What odds would you give them, eh, crawlies? Let’s wager, let’s have a little fun-”
Taliktrum’s finger stabbed down at Uskins. “That buffoon should not have been admitted. Who brought him?”
Uskins lowered his voice. “No one brought me, Lord Taliktrum. I merely followed my friends.”
Now it was Alyash’s turn to laugh. “What blary friends?”
Uskins’ mouth twisted, but he made no reply.
“Quarreling imbeciles!” said Taliktrum. “Your race truly is a misstep on the part of nature. By the sun and stars, act like men! Where is the sorcerer? When can we expect his next attack?”
The argument exploded again. Haddismal pointed out that Arunis’ last attack had only occurred after the ixchel drugged every human aboard. The ixchel fired back that drugged sleep was kinder than what giants had meted out to their people for five hundred years. Jeers and insults flew. When order at last returned, however, it was clear that no one knew where Arunis was hiding.
“I will say this,” said Bolutu. “He will not wait long. The South is changed, and powers have arisen that were not here… before. Arunis will not risk his prize being snatched by some mage or ruler mightier than himself.”
“What can he do, though?” asked Big Skip. “If he could use the Stone, he’d have come for it already, wouldn’t he?”
“Let him try,” said Haddismal, and his men rumbled in agreement.
“You speak in ignorance,” said Hercol. “The mage is three thousand years old. He has survived cataclysms beyond anything we have experienced. Do you think he will let himself be thwarted by a small company of marines? No, it is the Nilstone itself that thwarts him, for the present. And it is these two”-he indicated Pazel and Thasha-“who have best understood his tactics. How does one handle a poker heated in the furnace? With a glove, of course. That simple insight, when Thasha brought it to me, explained so much of the sorcerer’s efforts and schemes. This creature”-Hercol gestured at the Shaggat-“is his chosen glove. Arunis cares nothing for him or his deformed version of the Old Faith. He merely believes the Shaggat will serve his purpose.”
“Arqual’s purpose, too,” hissed Myett.
“Now, that just ain’t so,” said Haddismal. “The Emperor wants the downfall of the Mzithrin Kings, and he planned to use the Shaggat against them. That’s true, and well deserved, after all their crimes. But His Supremacy knew nothing about the Nilstone, or Arunis for that matter. He never meant things to come to such a pass.”
“Tell that to the survivors.”
Everyone turned. It was Lord Talag, Taliktrum’s father. He stood in the midst of the ixchel on the hay bales, leaning on the shoulder of a younger man. His thick gray hair was tied back in the style of elder ixchel, and his eyes blazed with fury. “Tell them!” he spat again. “The limbless, the eyeless, the orphaned, the mad. ‘Don’t blame Arqual. We never meant the Shaggat to do so well. We thought he would only sack a few cities, burn a few regions, exterminate a people or two. A brief civil war is all we had in mind-a war to break your will to fight us, when our fleets came in turn.’ Give them comfort, giant. Tell them how much better their lives will be under the Arquali heel.”
Pazel was alarmed. Since his abuse by the rats, Talag had been quiet and withdrawn. But here he was again in all his ferocity, Talag the mastermind, who had swept all his people up in his dream of a homecoming, who had exploited Ott’s war conspiracy as deftly as Arunis had. Here was the genius, the human-hater, Diadrelu’s brother and her twisted reflection. As much as anyone aboard, Talag had brought them to this moment. Was he recovered enough to lead the clan once more? And which was worse, the clear-eyed hatred of the father, or the hazy delusions of the son?