I had been correct, and if my adaptation to the skull had been quicker than Fura’s at the outset, she had soon made up the ground. I had come to accept that, while we were both gifted, her innate aptitude was stronger and more sensitive than my own. Soon enough, though, both our capabilities would fade. The likelihood was that the degradation would set in with me first, as the older sibling, but such things were by no means predictable. The only certainty was that the gift would leave us, as it did all Bone Readers. It might, in exceptional cases, remain in some attenuated form until one was thirty years of age. Such outliers were uncommon, though, and it was much more likely to vanish somewhere in the early twenties. I had been eighteen when we ran away from home; now my twentieth birthday was only half a year away and Fura had turned eighteen. I had detected no loss of sharpness in my own abilities, quite the contrary, but our skull was dying and the absence of a stable baseline made it very difficult to assess my own decline.
Young women and young men were the natural customers of bone merchants, so I drew only cautious glances as I went into each shop. I might be a hopeful case, wanting to be tested, with dreams of a new career. Or I might be an experienced hand, looking to test and procure a new skull on behalf of a proven crew. Either way, my being there was not a strangeness, and I had to be taken seriously. I damped down my Mazarile accent as best I could.
Wheel Strizzardy had one advantage over our own homeworld when it came to the matter of skulls: skulls never worked close to swallowers. They never worked well close to civilisation, either, but there was less of that here, what with the power cuts and the general smallness of this world, and under optimum circumstances some signal transmission was still feasible. That meant there was a chance of an exceptionally good skull, with no significant flaws or marks of repair, stuffed with twinkly that still twinkled vigorously, a skull that had not been drilled into too often, nor been exposed to too many clumsy Sympathetics, and which was housed in insulated surroundings, and came equipped with excellent, well-calibrated neural bridges. Only a handful of the shops ran to anything like that, but I made sure I visited all that did, and insisted on trying their skulls. In most cases this required a non-refundable down payment, in case of damage. Sometimes that was almost enough to buy a low-grade skull off the shelves, but since I was flush with quoins I made only meek protestations and then—after the obligatory haggling, because I did not want to seem as if I were too flush—I coughed up.
It felt odd to be alone with those bones, and to place unfamiliar neural bridges on my head. Nothing felt quite right, especially after my long adaptation to the skull on Revenger. But I had studied my trade well and I also knew exactly how to chase down a signal, even in a skull whose attributes and quirks were entirely foreign.
Even a viable skull may not always perform, and even if it does, there may not always be anyone else sending, at least within the limits of the mutual sensitivity of both the skull and the reader. So whenever I settled those neural bridges onto my head, and started plugging in, I did so with no strong expectation of success. Even so, I felt I might be able to reject certain skulls as being unsuitable for our needs.
But on the third occasion, in the third such boutique that allowed me to test their wares, something came through, and much more strongly than I was expecting.
It’s you.
The mind was known to me. It had come through a skull once before, when it let slip a word that betrayed its immediate interest in us. “Nightjammer.” And no sooner was it in my own head then by some reciprocal slippage it was in the skull, speeding away from me, into the mind of the Bone Reader who had just recognised my presence from that earlier union.
I chased my own thought with a hasty qualification.
We were never the Nightjammer.
A pause in the silent, voiceless exchange.
You claim some other identity?
We are an innocent vessel. You pursued us from the Empty. We saw your sail-flash and tried to make good our escape. But you came and came, harried us into near-Congregational space, and eventually wounded one of our own with your sail-shot.
And your wounded party?
I tried to squeeze the thought from my mind. But an image of Wheel Strizzardy flashed across my mind before I could suppress it. My inner discipline was not as rigorous as it was in our own bone room.
Yes, we thought you had made it to port. You needn’t chastise yourself for that slip. Conventional channels of intelligence had already exposed your nature and location. I wished only to see if you were aboard the larger vessel: you had been maintaining Bone Silence for some time, and my captain would be very glad to learn of your present disposition with regards to crew. Or he would be, if he were not suffering abominably from his injuries. Have you heard about our wounded?
I remembered the desperate exchanges we had picked up over their squawk, in the aftermath of the attack. The terror and the desperation of people who were either dying or fully certain they were about to, and the knowledge that we had done that to them.
It was an accident. We aimed at what we thought was empty space. We could not have known there was a second ship. Believe me, we had no desire to wound any of you.
You inflicted much more than a wounding on us. Your accuracy, penetration and rate of fire were very creditable. Water-cooled coil-guns, our armourer said—exactly the kind employed on the ship we had been licensed to hunt.
It isn’t us. You must understand. We engaged you, yes, but with the intention of disabling your rigging, handicapping your pursuit—no more.
Tell me your name. If you wish to protest your innocence, why would you keep it secret?
You do not need to know my name. We are both Bone Readers, are we not? Confidentiality is the essence of our trade.
I think you are a woman. I might be mistaken—very probably I am—but it would tally with our intelligence. Two sisters were drawn into her web, and at least one of them had a useful faculty with the bones.
I am not … her.
Adrana Ness, Arafura Ness—you are one or the other.
No …
But I had allowed too much of myself to show, and the lapse could not be undone.
I think you are Adrana. I should like to meet you, one day. I would find it very instructive to see one of the minds behind that deed. Or do you deny your culpability?
I told you we acted in error.
You have a will. You did not have to choose this life.
It chose me. And we’re not what you think. We killed her. We killed Bosa Sennen.
A frank admission. At least there is no denying your connection now.
I don’t deny it. But I promise we never meant to hurt you, not the way it happened.
Do you know something, Adrana Ness? I almost believe you. I have been reading the bones long enough to learn some of the subtler aspects of this peculiar trade of ours. And I think, in some small way, I have learned to sense the character behind these voiceless words. You seem strongly persuaded of your own innocence … almost enough to have me doubting the certainty of our own position. Yes, I almost believe you.
I am sending you the truth as I know it. We used a swallower to gain the element of surprise, and we meant to disable your outer sails. If we had known of the other ship, I swear we would have avoided it.
There. That insidious conviction. You do believe it. Perhaps you were lied to. Is that possible?
No. I know what happened, the exact circumstances. And I am sorry—truly sorry. I have lost friends in action, and I know something of how bad it can be. You must believe me that we would never have wished to visit those horrors on another crew.
Not even in vengeance for your own wounded?
No, not even for that. Tell me—what is your name? I have as good as confessed my own. At least do me the kindness of sharing yours.
Kindness, Adrana Ness? How could any of your crew ever hope to know of that? I shall tell you my name, yes. But only because the information is valueless to y
ou since I have nothing to hide, and I would think it rather fine if my name was one of those ringing through your head when they put you to the firing squad, or however they mean to execute your party. I am Chasco, Bone Reader to Captain Restral on the sunjammer White Widow, and I hope your end will be as slow as you deserve.
His words—his voiceless words—cut me to the marrow. I had to fight not to unplug from the skull at that moment, and sit in a shivering huddle, wishing that my life had brought me to any point in time and space but this precise juncture, knowing how it felt to be the focus of a hate that was both deserved and entirely without any shred of personal animus.
But I remained connected to the skull.
I am sorry, Chasco. Believe me or not. We never meant to do this.
*
Even after I’d unplugged, it was as if his voice was still inside me, the words of his judgement sounding over and over, the tone of their deliverance as empty of sentiment as any verdict ever given in a court of law.
I knew I ought to be thinking about the skull’s worth to us, being satisfied with its condition and suitability for our existing facilities, and knowing that its cost was well within our means. But I couldn’t bring myself to attend to anything so pragmatic as the purchase of a skull, especially as our old one was still functional. I felt cored out, reduced to a thin, brittle shell of myself. From Chasco’s standpoint, I thought, and knowing only the things that he knew, I would have no great difficulty in despising myself.
That is a state of self-reflection that I would wish on few other people. It is easy to accept that one is hated, provided one has the assurance that the other party has come to that judgement on deficient grounds, either because of some baseless grudge or an error of reasoning. It is much harder—singularly harder—to review the evidence against oneself and conclude that, yes, on that dispassionate basis, the hatred is not without foundation.
I left the shop, retaining just enough mental composure to add an additional deposit on the skull, so it might be held for a day or two, and then concluded that I had lost any desire to go after the other items on the list. I retraced my course back in the direction of Shine Street, hardly minding not to step in puddles, and then, confident of my navigation, took what I thought was a clever short-cut through some of the narrower streets backing onto the main avenue. They were gloomier, even in daylight, and as the grey buildings loomed over me, seeming to close tighter and tighter, like the jaws of a vice, I became aware that I was being followed. It was just a pair of footsteps, but they had been creeping up on my own for a few turns, and it took only a couple more for me to satisfy myself that this was no coincidence.
I turned a corner into a tight passage, took a few steps and then spun around, preparing to face my pursuer. With my free hand I delved into my jacket pocket, felt the pistol and drew it out, levelling it in preparation.
A figure came into view, halting before me. It was Mister Sneed, of course, and I suppose I ought not to have been surprised. His right hand was tucked deep into a pocket. With his left he reached up and plucked at the wobbling gemstone of mucus dangling from the tip of his nose, dragging it away between his fingers and making a snorting sound as he did so. His fingers silvered with his own slime—it formed a sort of horrible webbing between them—he jammed the offending hand back into his pocket.
It was a form of distraction, and I should have been wise to it. With the other hand he extracted a weapon from his right pocket. It was a pistol, larger and clumsier-looking than my own, and he aimed right at my chest.
“That’s a pretty little stinger you’ve got there. Just the ticket for a stroll through these less salubrious quarters. Where’d you come by such a dainty piece, girlie?”
The volition pistol was in my hand, but it was only aimed at him in a vague sense. I meant only to demonstrate that I had the means to defend myself. Then a sudden and severe change of mood came upon me. I decided that I hated Mister Sneed and wished to do him considerable and irrevocable ill. This hatred flowed into me with a sudden enlightening force. It was Bosa’s influence, and that was troubling enough, even as I grew more accustomed to the fact of her episodic holds on me. But now that residue of her had gained an additional means of expression. With a quick jerking action, my hand and arm moved until the volition pistol had its point of aim exactly on Mister Sneed’s forehead. Then it felt as if something locked in my bones and muscles, holding the aim as steadily as if my whole body were an expertly engineered artillery platform.
Mister Sneed should have fired by then, but I think the suddenness and precision of that snapping action was more than he expected, and it startled him just long enough to lose the edge. He took a precautionary step backward, and a little to his right, beginning to lower his own weapon, and the volition pistol held its lock on his forehead just as surely as if invisible arms were guiding and supporting my own.
“What do you want with me, Sneed?” I asked, with an arrogant authority.
“Mister S was just watchin’ out for you, is all. No harm meant by it.”
“By creeping after me with a gun?”
“In case you were accosted, or waylaid, or suchlike.” He was speaking faster now, flashing his ranks of bad brown teeth. “I came round this corner not really knowin’ what I’d find, so it paid to be prepared, so to speak. I weren’t stalkin’ you, if that’s what it seems.”
My voice retained its commanding edge. “Why did you kill Mister Cuttle, Sneed? I thought he was working for you and Glimmery.”
“Mister Cuttle had an unfortunate trip, is all.” He took his other hand out of his pocket and waggled the fingers by way of nervous demonstration. “Stairs and scuttly aliens don’t really go together. An accident waiting to happen.”
“And then you accidentally stepped in him. You’ve made an enemy of the Crawlies, I think—Mister Scrabble and Mister Fiddle. Was that wise?”
“They know which side their bread’s buttered. They won’t be rocking any boats, not if they know what’s good for ’em.”
“They seemed very upset to me, Sneed. I think you might just have overstepped your mark. But I still don’t know why you killed Cuttle.”
“They get ideas above their situations, Miss, and they needs to be brought down a peg or two. Happens all the time. Not that I’m admitting any culpabilitation.”
My finger itched, starting to squeeze the trigger. I had become a trinity, my free will divided between the pistol, Bosa and what remained of my own self-possession. I understood very well that the two silent partners in this mismatched union were complicit, encouraging me to complete the act that had been initiated when I drew out the weapon.
“I’d get back,” I said warningly, trying to flex my finger off the trigger, while at the same time trying to unsnap my arm. By some great force of will I jerked the aim away from his head, but only just before my finger heeded the weapon’s will.
An energy pulse flashed from the muzzle, a sort of pink-white spitball that lashed against a drainpipe and severed it cleanly, scorching the wall beyond it.
Then the pistol regained its authority over my arm, snapping back onto Mister Sneed, but by then I believe he had been sufficiently persuaded of my seriousness. Raising both hands, his own weapon dangling by a thumb, he made a stumbling rearward retreat. His eyes were as wide and pleading and pitiful as those of a whipped dog.
I strove to do as I done before, to contain Bosa by a supreme assertion of calm and placidity. I filled my head with pleasant conceits. I thought of pretty tunes, lovely fabrics, daily acts of sweetness and charity. I tried to ram my skull with such an over-abundance of sickening pleasantness that there was no room left in it for thoughts of retribution or cruelty.
By some miracle I felt her influence diminish; a large hateful presence becoming smaller and smaller, as if seen through the optics of a sighting tube being pulled back from maximum focal length. Diminishing but not disappearing.
A small distant voice said:
Face it, you w
ouldn’t want to get rid me of completely, would you? Not when you’ve seen how useful I can be to you.
“You’re no part of me,” I whispered. “You never will be.”
My finger itched on the trigger again. But as Mister Sneed went round the corner it was as if the pistol relinquished its hold on me, my arm slackening and my finger no longer compelled to fire. I waited a few moments, listening for his footsteps as they moved away, slowly at first and then with evident haste.
When I was certain that I was safe from him, I slipped the volition pistol back into my pocket. I loathed and treasured it in the same breath—wished to crush it underfoot and press it to my breast like a gift from a lover.
I stood still for a few moments, gathering what very little composure I could summon. I was shaking.
That was when I saw the figure watching me from the far end of the alley. Tall, thin and dark: not much more than a silhouette. The watcher was male, I believed, but I did not think he was one of Sneed’s men, nor—even though his clothes were dark—was he one of those black-gowned attendants I had seen around Glimmery. He surveyed me for a moment longer, sufficient for me to establish that I was the particular object of his attention and that he had been monitoring the entire exchange with Sneed.
“Lagganvor.”
I had called out the name with no assurance that this was him. If I was in error, then it was likely that the name would mean nothing to this stranger. If I was correct, as intuition persuaded me I was, then he must already know of our interest in him. Either way, no lasting harm would be done.
Perhaps there was a hesitation as he heard me call out the name—an instant when he might have been about to turn, but delayed the action. The light shifted and I caught a trace of his features, partly obscured by a curtain of hair that hung to his collar. A young man’s face, not unhandsome, and one that triggered in me some faint, imprecise sense of familiarity. I felt that I knew him, or had seen him before, impossible as that was.
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