Fata Morgana

by Thomas J. Radford

  There. Better. So much better. Where’s the board now? Belongs to me now, I figure. Ah, there. Paper. That. Stay still, damn you. Like looking at the waves. Floating. Spinning. All in motion. Never did like water. Did I? Can’t remember.

  Skipper.

  Shut up. Reading you, aren’t I? Focus! Quill wanted to show you something, right? Jobs and such. Ships and runs and coin at the end. Need coin. Everyone needs coin. Coin pays for bits and pieces and makes all the hurt go away.

  She pulled one off, tearing it in half. That was bad. Quill would be mad. That seemed important. Be all right though. Everything would be all right.

  Just put it somewhere safe. Look at it later. Try again, not so fast this time. That one’s pretty, got colours on it. Like ink-work almost.

  It took her a moment to realise what she was seeing. Vice’s authorities would post decrees and pronouncements. Sometimes jobs would be posted there, particularly urgent ones. Quill said that, Nel remembered knowing that. It was out of long habit that her eyes scanned the various parchments and banners nailed to the wood.

  Another moment to comprehend it. And longer still to react. She took a hurried step, almost stumbling, and closed the distance to it. Hand on the wood, solid, comforting, taking her weight. Holding her up. Eyes pressed up against it. It was the only way she could make it out.

  Words and phrases jumped out at her, twisting ad nauseum. She grabbed the top of the board with one hand, feeling splinters under her fingers and not caring.

  All rights and responsibilities . . .

  . . . of maritime purpose . . .

  . . . beholden and bequeathed unto . . .

  . . . referred to as the captain, one . . .

  . . . henceforth to be known as the Tantamount . . .

  The deed and title to the Tantamount. Nailed unceremoniously to the wooden framing. A deed written on the actual skin of the ship’s Captain.

  Her ship.

  Her captain.

  Chapter 2

  THEY DID LET her back in, after her walk. Found herself a quiet spot at a dry table. The table was dry because she’d scrubbed it herself. Ripped the sleeve off her shirt and rubbed her knuckles half-bloody making sure what she had spread out would not get wet.

  You went and died on me, Captain, was all Nel could think looking at the tattooed deed. Don’t need to pickle you as well, though I’m not sure you would have minded.

  Bottle me, Nel. If I should die adrift in the black or the lanes. Bottle me in brandy. Barrel me in rum and cask me in whiskey. And send me home to see my girls. And make sure the crew don’t go tapping the keg. No tapping the captain on his own ship. It’s a rule.

  Had he actually said that or was her mind playing tricks? Sounded like something Horatio would have said so he might as well have.

  “Then here’s to you, Captain. My captain.” Nel rolled the deed up, tucking it inside her shirt, as secure as it could be. She didn’t think about what was touching her skin. Her mind was still far down in drink for it not to matter.

  In the morning it would matter. The light would come back and burn her. There would be pain, pain in the head and the heart and wherever pain found a home for itself.

  Someone sat down opposite her. She realised then the table was empty. People were giving her a wide berth. Couldn’t fault that.

  “Not tonight,” she said, figuring it was one of her card playing companions. “Got no coin for games.”

  A cup was pushed towards her. More a goblet really. Filled with wine.

  “That ain’t my drink.”

  “Not such a waste if you knock this one over. Hurts less if you hit me with it too.”

  “Don’t feel like wine, felt like beer,” Nel grumbled, eyeing the dark red liquid.

  “If you don’t want it then—” the voice broke off as Nel downed the contents in a long swallow. She pushed the cup away.

  “Saw your spat with the Kelpie. Making friends?”

  Nel shrugged. Was too long ago to worry about that. Another cup appeared, or the same one refilled. Sneaky servers, this tavern. She took it but didn’t drink so fast. Could already feel the first.

  This first. There were other firsts. Earlier. First.

  Nel finally looked up. Wasn’t much to see, with eyes swelling shut from stray bar fights and rock-fisted Kelpies. Drink was taking care of the rest nicely, made everyone else look prettier. This one had long hair, bearded. Hood up to keep the rain off and the eyes out.

  Don’t know you, don’t care to know you neither.

  “Making friends,” she said, hearing herself slur the words. “That’s how I got here. Making friends . . .”

  “Sounds like a tale.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “I like tales.”

  Nel squinted at him. Now that she thought about it, he reminded her somewhat of Sharpe. Castor Sharpe. And meeting him had been the bane of her and the Tantamount. That was how the tale went. Her hand went to her chest, touching the rolled-up deed under her clothing. Didn’t feel like much, had to reassure herself it was still there.

  “Remind me of someone,” she said, swirling her finger and taking a general stab at them.

  At least two of them now, maybe more. Triples. Gotta be pointing at one of you.

  “A good memory, I hope.”

  “Not even a bit,” Nel leaned back, pulling one leg up so she had somewhere to rest her head. Made the room stop spinning, somewhat, resting her head on her knee. “But you’re not him. He’s dead.”

  “Ah, well, I’m not, so that’s just as well.”

  “Who are you then?”

  “Who do you want me to be?”

  “Sound like him. He was an infuriating bastard too.”

  “Terribly misunderstood fellow, I’m sure.”

  Nel’s only response was a snort of disdain. She twisted her head halfway to look at him side-on.

  He could be Sharpe, she thought. Lose the beard, clip the hair. Leave me out in the sun to dry out for a week.

  There was still wine in the cup. She took care of that.

  Was that even my cup? Maybe two weeks.

  The late-night movement was happening. She saw some of her regular drinking partners preparing to make the move to the next bar. Meaning this one was about to go dry. That wouldn’t do. Nel got up to join the nightly procession. Safety in numbers, there was.

  Nel swayed, putting hand to table. It was a straight line between her and the door. Her friends were leaving. A straight line.

  Damnit.

  “Hells, woman, how much have you drunk?”

  “Don’t you use that word!” She turned, too fast, too sharply, pointing at not-Sharpe, trying to stab him with her finger. She missed and had to steady herself before she met the floor.

  “That’s my word,” she said to them. “Don’t you be using my word.”

  She almost fell, from the pointing. The pointing and the yelling. Not-Sharpe grabbed her by the shoulders. Nel stared at them, all close and in her face.

  “You really do look like him.”

  “Vaughn!”

  That was a Kelpie voice. One of her drinking buddies. Red Scale, perhaps. Or Short Stuff.

  No, Short Stuff is a Korrigan, not a Kelpie. Very bad to mix the two up. Very bad.

  It wasn’t either of them though. It was Quill. Pushing his way through the crowd of drunken patrons towards her. Not someone she wanted to see. Not now. Not ever.

  “Hells.”

  “Nel,” the man holding her said.

  Nel pushed him away. It turned out he was the only thing holding her up. The floor leaned in to kiss her.

  SHE WOKE UP in pain. Blinding, stabbing pain, going in through her eyeballs and trying to poke its way out through the back of her skull. Needle-shaped lightning carrying chisels and hammers. Cracking her skull from the inside out. Daylight. Nel rolled over, hand searching for the pillow to cover the pain. There was no pillow but her hand found something else. Blankets, twisted and knotted. Hair. Not
hers. A shoulder. Definitely not her.

  Hells. Not alone.

  Nel groaned, fighting to open crusty eyes. The sun was invading the room through glassless windows. Nothing to keep it out. The noise of the street carried up. Wagons. Shouting. Noise. The only quiet thing was Quill.

  She’d seen the pose before; legs folded back, hands clasped in front of him. His head was bowed, what passed for his chin resting almost on his chest. His eyes were closed.

  He wasn’t that quiet, either. His breath was raspy, in and out through his nostrils.

  Nel sat up and the room spun. When she opened her eyes, she was staring up at the ceiling. Cobwebs. So many cobwebs.

  “Slower,” Quill’s voice told her. “I suggest slower.”

  She took his advice, sitting up slowly. Inch by inch, keeping her head down, eyes focused on her knees.

  “Quill,” she said when she felt it safe to talk. “Where the hells are my boots?”

  Her feet were bare. Cold, even.

  “Under the bed.”

  “Get them for me.”

  “No.”

  She didn’t reply. So much for that plan. Under the bed? Stupid place for them. Have to stay there. Not going in after them.

  “Why am I in bed?”

  “I put you there. Would you have preferred the floor?”

  You always this mouthy, Quill? What else did I forget?

  “What’s he doing there?” she asked.

  “Who?”

  “Hells, Quill, there’s only three of us here.”

  When she looked at Quill, he was grinning. Broadly.

  “You don’t smile, Quill. Looks wrong on you. Make it stop.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Plough you then.”

  The smile grew wider.

  “Remind me what happened,” Nel sighed.

  “Ask your friend.”

  “Don’t have any friends.”

  “You have at least one.”

  “You don’t count. Never meant a single nice thing I said about you.”

  Even that couldn’t knock the smile off Quill’s face. “I was not referring to me.”

  A groan beside her. Her friend was stirring. Nel closed her eyes, leaning forward on her hands. She didn’t care to look at whoever it was.

  Her friend made a raucous go of getting up. There was a cough, mixed with a groan of pain.

  “Lost a tooth,” they said, voice thick and slurred. Then, “Half a tooth. Damn, woman.”

  She heard Quill laugh.

  Nel steeled herself to look up. Mercifully, the room stayed level. She took in Quill’s idiotic grin as she turned to confront her friend.

  And forgot everything else for a moment.

  Castor Sharpe stared back at her, pressing a cloth stained red against his mouth. His cheek and jaw were black and purple, mottled day-old bruises, visible even under the beard. The beard was new; she truly hadn’t recognised him with it. Hair was longer too, and Nel didn’t like it, looked like his face was hiding. In fact she felt a deep, simmering resentment just looking at him. Enough to forget about the hangover that was trying to force its way out from inside her skull.

  Sharpe held up a broken fragment of white. Presumably the lost tooth.

  “What happened?” Sharpe directed his query at Quill, his tone half accusing.

  “She happened,” Quill pointed.

  “Yes, but—”

  “She kicked you,” Quill elaborated. He was still grinning. “In the face.”

  “My tooth.”

  “Presumably you will grow another.”

  “Don’t work like that, Kelpie,” Nel sighed, rubbing at her temple.

  “Ah, truly? Unfortunate. Then you will be wanting this back?”

  “Is it morning? Why is it morning?” Sharpe peered at the window.

  “You fell asleep.”

  “She kicked me. In the face.”

  “Yes.”

  “Did she kick you?”

  “I removed her boots. The kicks were less painful.”

  Quill clapped his hands together, rubbing them gleefully. “And now who would care for breakfast?” he asked. “Perhaps more drink? We must celebrate.”

  His smile only grew wider at their mutual groans.

  QUILL BROUGHT THEM stew, a pot he carried and set upon wrapped cloth and served into wooden bowls. Maybe it was just hunger but the stew was good, thick and hearty with diced root vegetables and chunks of what might have been goat meat. If not Nel didn’t feel inclined to ask what. The food settled her stomach but set the wheels in her mind turning.

  “You don’t eat much,” she said to Sharpe.

  He looked guilty, cradling his bowl between both hands, mostly picking at it with his spoon. “Don’t feel so good,” he said. “Smell’s good, but making my head ache worse for it.”

  Sharpe had never been much of an eater, Nel recalled. Always went through the motions, but . . .

  “Where’d you get the food, Quill?” She turned the bowl and scraped the dregs into her mouth.

  “The kitchen.”

  “Thought you were out of coin.”

  “You were out of coin. I have been working.”

  “Where?”

  “At the docks.”

  At the docks. Quill hates the docks. Lifting and pushing crates. Always said it were beneath him.

  No wonder he kept bringing jobs. Should have just left without me.

  Except Quill hadn’t left.

  Nel put her bowl aside. Her stomach rumbled in protest at the action. It had been a while since she’d eaten. Properly. She could make out bones in her arms, all knobby and angular. Not eating made the drinking easier, made the coins go further. Made the day after the night before harder.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Quill’s eyes narrowed on her suspiciously.

  Sharpe offered her his mostly untouched bowl. No more words were exchanged until she’d finished that as well.

  “You ought to be dead.” She handed the bowl back to Sharpe.

  “Never was good at doing what I was meant to be,” he said quietly.

  “Tell her what you told me,” Quill said.

  Nel pulled her head back so she could stare at them both. “You been conspiring again.”

  “Quill found me,” Sharpe said.

  “I did not find you,” Quill corrected him. “I was not looking for you.”

  “Found each other then.”

  “I’m so happy for you both,” Nel said. “Now why ain’t you dead, Castor?”

  “First name,” Sharpe nodded. “Means I’m in trouble.”

  “Such names should not be spoken,” Quill agreed.

  “Better left unsaid.”

  “Would you two . . . ,” Nel sighed. “Ain’t nobody in trouble, not yet. But don’t make me put my boots back on. Where’ve you been, Sharpe, if not dead?”

  Sharpe’s fingers drummed on the bowl. Tap, tap, tap. A nervous habit he hadn’t shown before. There was a pattern to it. And a distant look.

  “Got picked up by the Mangonel after the battle. At Rim.”

  “Thought you were on the other ship. The one they dropped you on.”

  “Was. Didn’t care for me much there. Not the best luck, me and ships.” Sharpe’s voice was light. Like always. The same mocking tone. But forced. “Wanted to string me up. Tried to . . .”

  Sharpe reached up, rubbing at his neck. There was an abrasion there. Rope burn. More than tried then.

  “Tried to hang you,” Nel said, not unkindly.

  “Yes,” Sharpe said, eyes distant. Haunted. The ghosts of memories.

  Hells, but I don’t wanna know. Got enough shades of my own without . . .

  “Nel . . . I saw,” he turned to her. “I saw the Tantamount burning. The bodies. I saw . . . floating in the black . . . I . . .”

  “You weren’t there,” Nel said. She found she had to look away. The memories were painful enough. She’d done all she could to drown them. But not just that. The na
ked emotion on Sharpe’s face. It was painful to look at. And not something she’d expected to see.

  Or him, for that matter. Ever again.

  “They sent me to the Mangonel. Your friend, former captain. Heathen. Questioned me.”

  “How . . . no, what? What’d they ask?”

  “All about you. Wanted to know what I knew, how to find you. Where you might go. Didn’t care much about anyone else, your captain, she—”

  Nel interrupted. “Not my captain.”

  “Yeah. Well, couldn’t tell ’em what I didn’t know. So after a while she started believing me. Guess it didn’t make a difference though. Passed along to another ship. And they found you anyways. I don’t know . . . I couldn’t see . . . didn’t know. But there was a battle. I got out. That’s when I saw . . .”

  Nel made the mistake of looking back at him.

  “I saw you all die.”

  I didn’t die.

  I let everybody else die.

  “She told me you were dead.”

  Sharpe’s voice. What is that? Disbelief? Anger? Hysteria?

  ”It doesn’t matter what she told you,” Nel said, harsher than she’d intended. “None of it matters because it’s all done. So Heathen and the rest of them can go—”

  “It wasn’t Heathen,” Sharpe said. “It was Violet.”

  Chapter 3

  STARS LIKE TINY pinpricks in a black cloth. An endless ocean of black. Other meaningless clichés. Half-grappled thoughts that ran fleetingly through her head. Drifting. Ever drifting. All she knew was cold.

  Light and mist surrounded her. Not the cold light of the stars, light reflected, light refracted, bouncing off the water that surrounded her.

  Water? Mist? The water fell, off the edge of the world. Over her, but she remained. Drifting, twisting. Occasionally another world would pass across her horizon. Large, impossibly distant. Solid. Unreachable. Beautiful. Surrounded by a thousand tiny lights. Mere pinholes in a smothering canopy of black.

  And eventually all those tiny pinpricks merged into one larger glob of light. Floating overhead. Blinding her.

  “You’re lucky to be alive.”

  The fall. Something . . . heavy. Being swept off the deck of the ship. Nel Vaughn’s face, the deck of the Tantamount shrouded in smoke.