The Night of the Swarm (Chathrand Voyage 4) by Robert V.S. Redick Read Free Book Online Page A

where in the Nine Pits was Teggatz with his tea?
He put the eye back in his mouth. Better to keep it there, clicking against his molars, studying his tongue, watching his words before they left his—
    ‘Riding pants!’ said Sandor Ott.
    Rose inhaled the eye. His face purpled, his vision dimmed. The old killer sighed and bent him double; then came a stunning blow between his shoulders. The eye shot from his mouth, and the hated
cat, Sniraga, chased and batted it across the floor.
    ‘Now sit up.’
    Rose did not sit up. He was thinking of the augrongs, Refeg and Rer. It was just possible that he could oblige the huge anchor-lifters to kill Sandor Ott, battering through a wall of Turachs,
lifting the spymaster, breaking him over a scaly knee. But what if the Turachs killed the augrongs instead?
    ‘Kindly look at me when I am talking,’ said Ott. The captain stared hard at the floor. Vital to resist, vital to deny: if he caved in on small matters, the larger would follow.
    ‘Boots,’ Ott snarled. ‘Buckskin gloves. A spare belt buckle, a fifth of rum. Powdered sulphur in your socks. A little whetstone for your axe. But the pants, Captain: they tell
the whole tale. They’d been altered that same afternoon: bits of leather trim were still in Oggosk’s sewing basket. The hag stitched them especially for you, with thick pads in the
seat, lest that treacherous arse develop saddle sores. You truly meant to go through with it. To abandon your vessel, your crew. To run off with Hercól and Pathkendle and Thasha
Isiq.’
    ‘Only to the city gate,’ said Rose. ‘Only until I was sure we’d seen the last of them.’
    ‘And for this you kept the witch up all night sewing pants?’
    Rose sat up heavily. ‘They’re not idiots,’ he said. ‘They had to believe I meant to join their daft crusade.’
    Sandor Ott stopped pacing directly in front of Rose. He put his hand in his pocket and withdrew a small lead pillbox. He held it close to the captain’s face.
    ‘These?’
    ‘Sulphites,’ said the captain, ‘for my gout.’
    Ott extracted a pill, crunched it in his mouth. He turned and spat on the polished floor.
    ‘Waspwort,’ he said, ‘for altitude sickness.’ The spymaster’s gaze was very cold. ‘You were going with them over the mountains. It was no bluff at
all.’
    Rose dropped his eyes. ‘It was no bluff,’ he said.
    ‘I am empowered by His Supremacy to punish you with death,’ said Ott. ‘You were given command of the most crucial mission in the history of Arqual, and you tried to shrug it
off and flee. That is criminal dereliction of duty. Your life is justly forfeit.’
    ‘We both know you’re lying,’ said Rose. ‘Emperor Magad gave
you
into
my
service, not the other way around.’
    ‘Have you believed that all along?’
    The captain’s face darkened. ‘I am the Final Off shore Authority,’ he said.
    ‘Treason nullifies such authority,’ said Ott. ‘You would do better to concentrate on providing reasons I should
want
to keep you alive. For at the moment, Captain, I
have not a one.’
    His hand shot out, seized the captain’s own. Then he pointed to a short scar, healed but plainly visible. ‘How did you get this?’ he said.
    ‘From that miserable Sniraga,’ said Rose, flicking his eyes towards the cat.
    ‘Stop lying to me, bastard. That’s the mark of a blade tip. A sword, I think. Who the devil lunged at you with a sword?’
    ‘It was the cat, I say. Have a look at her claws.’
    Ott shook his head in disappointment. He turned and walked to the gallery windows, swept the curtains aside. Grey daylight flooded the chamber, refracted through a haze of cloud. It was
midmorning but the sun could have been anywhere – high or low, east or west. They were in the shallows of the Ruling Sea, two days out from Masalym, running west along the endless length of
the Sandwall. Running for their lives.
    ‘Our relationship,’ said Ott, ‘must proceed henceforth on a new footing, or