Page 20 of Carousel

“Good,” the man says brightly, as if we’ve passed some kind of test he’d set for us. “Everyone is awake and in good state of dress.” He snickers to himself. “I’m sure you can forgive me for needing to check when I heard there were two young people down here, alone in the dark.”

“We—that’s…” I say, flustered, at the same time that Drake demands, “Are you Dezeeves?”

I gawk at Drake.

He’d spoken in Hevallan. I wouldn’t have thought he’d know the tongue. Maybe all soldiers are taught it.

The stranger smiles. “Here,” he says, producing two small waterskins from two baggy pockets in his coat. He throws them at our feet.

I hesitate – but only briefly. I know I should be more suspicious, but my thirst is overpowering everything else. I snatch one from the ground and gulp it down.

Water. Just water.

I breathe out in relief.

Drake has picked up the other waterskin. He sniffs it before drinking from it, which he does without the frenzy I’d shown.

“I thought you might both be thirsty,” the man decrees, again in his light, airy voice, as if we’ve all met for dinner. “My brother has never been the most welcoming of hosts.”

Brother?

And then I think, of course. I’d instantly seen the resemblance.

He steps closer, extending a long, gloved hand to Drake.

“And yes. You were correct, young man. My name is Dezeeves. My family name is Pire.”

Very slowly, Drake takes the man’s hand, watching him carefully while he shakes it.

The man then turns to me to shake mine. I don’t really hold my hand out – he just sort of takes it. His handshake is firm, compressing. If fingers could breathe, he would be stopping mine from it. I’m relieved when he finally lets go.

“I am the Emperor’s Captain,” he continues, in that same airy voice. “Not the Captain of the Emperor, and the Emperor is certainly not the captain of me. I prefer Dezeeves to Captain Pire, Pire to Captain, Sir to Pire, and Captain to Sir.” He smiles again. “It’s really all quite simple.”

I cast a glance at Drake. He looks, for a second, as dumbfounded as I feel.

“Of course, you could just call me Dez. But then I’d have to kill you.” He laughs. The sound is harsh, like the grinding of an unoiled machine.

And I understand it perfectly now.

We’re in the presence of a madman.

Drake composes himself. Maybe he’s decided to humour him, because he asks, in a serious tone, “Tell us your purpose in visiting us, Dezeeves.”

I find myself again impressed by Drake’s ability to speak Hevallan. His words and grammar are clear.

But Dezeeves just turns away from us to set the torch into a wall sconce.

Drake tries again, firmer this time.

“There is no need for suspense. Just tell us you are taking us onto The Emperor, and go ahead and do it. If that is what you plan to do.”

Taking us onto The Emperor?

Dezeeves faces us again. “So, you’ve understood.”

“I have heard of you,” Drake says, calmly. “Your conversion work⁠—”

Dezeeves interrupts. “Integration. Not conversion work⁠—”