by Emerson, Ru
Edrith settled the hat, offside like Chris’s; Chris grinned at him and touched the edge of his own. “Great costume, guy. Once we get on ship, use your own judgment; if you don’t think things feel right, go with that, and stay in your cabin. Chances are, we’ll stay out of sight the whole trip, anyway.”
“Right.”
“It’s a short crossing, after all. And I don’t think anyone’s gonna hassle us. New Lisbon—that’s where there’ll be trouble, if there is any.”
“Because my father still does business there,” Ariadne said; her voice showed no expression. She came away from the window.
“Well—your old man and any of the dudes who might’ve hired Windsong; there’s a lot of business in the main port, and not all of it clean. But we should be okay, really: The local governor doesn’t put up with too much dirty stuff, and he’s got real low tolerance for violence—there’s armed watchmen everywhere, especially along the wharves and around the harbor. We won’t be there long, anyhow: Once we land, Eddie and I know guys—couple, three we truly trust; we’ll get one of them to hire a small boat or a carriage, take us north to Havana—sorry, Mondego. After that, we’ll be ok.”
“We will be fine,” Ariadne said. She looked calm, Chris thought; sounded it, too. He knew she could act, of course. At the moment, he was pretty strung up, and when someone tapped at the door, he jumped. Dija spoke against it; Chris couldn’t make out the muffled response. Dija glanced at him inquiringly. “It is the man for our bags.”
“Fine, let him in.” Chris pulled his personal satchel from the pile of luggage and held out his free arm for Ariadne.
The sky over San Philippe bore than brassy tint that warned of a high storm to come; the air was thick, sultry, and oppressive. The open part of the platform was empty when they stepped down from the car, except for the boy holding the wooden step in place for them. Chris could see the white-uniformed chef de tren escorting the richly clad family of six and two enormous wagons of luggage toward the other private car. “Jeez, I thought we had a lot of stuff,” he muttered, but when Ariadne glanced at him curiously, he shook his head. Keep the mouth shut unless you’re thinking first, dude, he reminded himself. Even after so many years away from L.A., his English was noticeably different from anyone else’s: uniquely Chris.
So was the walk; he remembered just in time to slow down, match his pace to Ariadne’s. Besides, Eddie would need time to take care of the luggage; even though they could find each other on San Philippe’s small waterfront, he’d prefer to keep the other two in sight as much as possible. In case someone spots us right away; my lousy luck, they’d do just that. Besides, I know what Eddie’s like—walking trouble magnet. Well, Eddie was responsible for Dija; that should settle him for the time being.
Ariadne’s fingers clung to his sleeve; what little he could see of her mouth and jaw under that broad, face-shading hat was set and very tense. “We’ll go in a minute or so,” he said quietly, then raised his voice a little; the accent, he decided, wasn’t notably outland at all. “Walk a little here, stretch your legs.” They wandered slowly down the platform, turned, and walked back in the other direction. “That was a nice way to travel,” he said casually. “Much better than ship this time of year.”
“Very nice,” Ariadne agreed. “It rocks, but not nearly so much as a ship, and the food was much better. And it was pleasant to have room to walk about.” She was gazing back along the train, one hand holding the hat brim against a sudden warm puff of wind. “I see them,” she added in a very low voice.
Chris looked up; Eddie—truly unrecognizable from this distance—had just stepped aside to let Dija precede him. Dija looked odd in one of Ariadne’s hats and her loose, silky frock coat. Not Rhadazi at all, Chris thought with relief. He turned then and started toward the street. “Good. There should be a carriage for hire out here.”
There were four, one already occupied by the man and woman they’d seen arguing and eating in the common-class car. They were arguing once more—or still—when the open cart pulled into the street and turned west, toward the mountains. Chris’s eyes went up, following the sharp-edged peaks; he touched Ariadne’s hand and pointed. “Look, near the tops, the white stuff? Way up. That’s snow.”
“Snow? But you said it came with cold!”
“It’s cold up there, I’ll bet you. Too bad some of the cool air hasn’t dropped down to where we are.”
She nodded. “Storm weather; this could bring the bad winds.”
“Swell. All we need is a hurricane.” Chris picked out the only closed carriage. “None of those open carriages for me, I think we could use the shade. Driver—you take up to the port? Um—à la havre, por favor?” Ariadne winced and closed her eyes.
If anything, it was hotter down by the piers; brassy sunlight reflected blindingly off the water, and there was no wind whatsoever. Chris’s nose wrinkled as they passed a line of small, open fishing boats, where dark, barely clad men cleaned baskets of fish and tossed the orts to a shrieking flock of gulls: The smell hit him like a blow. Ariadne gasped and fumbled for her handkerchief; the carriage sped up a little, and with one last turn, pulled to a halt next to a tall stone building. The driver handed Ariadne out, took Chris’s silver, and drove away. Chris glanced back the way they’d come, long enough to assure himself that Eddie and Dija were in sight, then went inside.
Not quite an hour later, Chris handed another silver coin to the boy who’d packed their bags and a laden hamper out to the African Maborre, closed the thin plank door, and set the bar across it. Ariadne dropped her purse on the tiny cabin’s only surface—other than the low, wide bed that took up most of the room—a table that swayed when she touched it. An ornate silver oil lamp hung from one of the cross beams in the low ceiling. Chris indicated the door, set thumb and forefinger a tiny distance apart, then touched his finger to his lips. Ariadne nodded.
“We’re fortunate,” Chris said after a moment, and kept his voice low. He shoved bags against the curved outer bulkhead and pressed aside the brightly patterned cloth that covered the cabin’s only window; the glass was ancient, handblown, and he couldn’t see a thing through it, but at least it let in some light. It didn’t open, but even if it had, there wouldn’t have been room for anyone larger than his three-year-old half sister to crawl through. Up the side of the ship, in the middle of the ocean? Reality check, Cray. A little fresh air would have been nice—but there wasn’t any that qualified as fresh around here, not in his books. “It’s plain but clean enough. And sailing tonight on the tide. Two years ago, we would have been here for days, waiting for transport.”
Ariadne shrugged, sat on the edge of the bed. “It is larger than some,” she admitted. “And the food—that was a good idea, to bring our own.”
“Got it from those folks on the train. Besides, no offense to the guys running this ship, but a lot of what they eat even I can’t handle.” He held up a hand, crossed quietly to the door, and listened intently for a moment, then nodded once and came back over to the bed. “It’s okay,” he murmured. “That was Eddie going by just now. And I heard Dija’s voice; they’re both here.”
“Good.” Ariadne was quiet for a while; one hand played restlessly with the fringe on her bag. She fingered the pins at the crown of her hat, hesitated, and drew them out, and set the hat on the wobbly little table. She hesitated, glanced briefly at Chris. “There is room enough for two here on this bed. I think I shall nap.” She drew her feet up, lay on her side facing away from him, and closed her eyes. After a moment, she murmured, “The straw even is fresh, there is no bad smell.”
“Good.” Well, what else is there to do for the next few hours? Chris thought. He couldn’t go out on deck until they left port, just in case; there wasn’t anything to read, and he’d planned and replanned the next few days as well as he possibly could. The Maborre rocked gently on its anchor, small waves slapped against the brightly painted hull. Lie down, he told himself. She said you could. You don’t, she’s gonna think�
�well, who knows what? God, how does she sleep in all those clothes? And how were they going to get that hat back on her head, without Dija? He tossed his own hat atop the baggage, vigorously rubbed his forehead where the band had been, and lay back. Pillow ‘d be nice. Maybe one of his bags… he decided to stay where he was, let his eyes close.
The ship itself was African, and so was the captain, the crew a real mix, like so many were in this end of the world: everything from WASPy-looking types to a flat-faced South American, to the blue-black elegant-looking fellow who’d shown them below decks and pointed out the cabin. Everything in between. No one even vaguely familiar to him. Lots of people down here that aren’t involved in Zero, or working for Dupret, he reminded himself. The French spoken up there bothered him—a little. But so many of the crews, especially the mixed ones like this, used French as a base language. Nearly everyone spoke or understood a little of it, this end of the world.
There might still be passengers coming aboard—men or even families who paid small coin and stayed on the rear deck throughout the voyage. No, he wouldn’t be going up top until they reached New Lisbon, and then only after Eddie cleared it for him. Jeez, Cray, you getting old and spooked, or something? Think of something else.
New Lisbon: They’d make the southern port in something under twenty hours, even if the winds stayed light; the trip north to Mondego would take another—call it half a day, Chris decided. He bit back a yawn. Beside him, Ariadne shifted a little; her breathing deepened. Mmmm. Half a day. Maybe all of one; have to find someone I really do trust, then there’s getting the boat, getting all of us onto it, we’ll be hugging the coast all the way around, that takes time….
He crossed his legs, bit back another yawn. Get into Mondego, anyway; they’ve got cable laid back to the Peninsula and up to the Mainland. I can send wires to let Jen and the Heir know we’re okay, see if one of my contacts up in New Amsterdam can’t do some record searching for me. Funny: having to get someone else to do that for him. Yah. But I’m not an American anymore, am I? And like I’d know how to do a search like what we need, anyway. Get—yeah, there were a couple guys he’d worked with in the capitol, they’d made good money off his deals and so far as he knew neither had any connection with steel. Maybe wait for an answer from Jen or Afronsan—or both—before he wired north. If the old dude hasn’t cut the wires, that is. Well, this wasn’t the place to worry about that. He yawned widely, folded his arms across his chest, and fell asleep.
He woke some time later, too warm, disoriented, a little queasy from the motion of the ship, which was rocking a little more forcefully, and what felt like three directions at once. Ariadne sat cross-legged on the end of the bed, rummaging through the hamper. “I heard someone, just now,” she said quietly. A brief smile. “In French worse than yours. The anchor comes up shortly—a little early because they think there may be wind, and this is no place for a ship to face it. They anchor again in deep water, and wait for daylight. Will you have bread, fruit?”
“Mmmm.” He yawned, sat up, and stretched. “Better eat while I can, I suppose. Gets too rough, I won’t want to. Let’s see—bread and some of that stuff in the pot.” She handed him a napkin, followed by two flat, large rolls, a knife, a black-glazed clay pot, and an orange. “You’re eating?”
“I did, already. Just now.” She drew out the wine flask, poured a little into one of the clay cups, sniffed warily, shrugged, and drank. “Not so bad. A little tart, you would not care for it.”
“No. The orange’ll do fine, thanks.” He broke one roll in half, pried the top from the pot, slathered his bread thickly, and bit into it. “Mmm, gotta get this stuff into Rhadaz, even if no one wants it but me.”
Ariadne took the knife from him, scraped a little onto her finger, and tried it. “It tastes of nuts.”
“It is. Had something like it back home; boy, do I miss peanut butter.” This didn’t taste like peanuts, of course; the texture was the same, though, the stuff as filling—and the green feeling subsided as he ate. He finished the second roll, cut the orange into quarters, and bit into it. Water would’ve been nice—but not San Philippe water, Chris thought. Nothing along this end of the coast, actually; the orange would have to do. He took the damp cloth Ariadne held out, wiped his hands and mouth; his moustache was sticky with nut butter. “Think I’ll live now.” He jumped as men strode up the passage, and someone shouted down the hatch. French—he couldn’t make out what. Ariadne was right; someone’s accent was atrocious.
“They raise the anchor,” Ariadne said. A moment later, chain rattled against the hull; the ship turned and began to gather speed. Deep orange sunlight slid across the bed, was gone. Chris got unsteadily to his feet as Ariadne repacked the hamper. “Better make a light while we can still see to find the lantern.”
Across the passageway and two doors down, Edrith pressed his ear against the door, then came back and sat on the edge of the bed. “That was crew; we are on the way.” He spoke Rhadazi, his voice very low. Dija gazed at the door; her hands were trembling. “They are all right down there. Once we clear the harbor and halt again, I will go up top and look about.”
“If the wrong person sees you—”
She has reason to be nervous, Edrith reminded himself. This far from home for the first time, I was nervous and so was Chris. And we’ve probably frightened her badly, all that’s happened and now these precautions. Don’t be impatient with her for this. “It’s all right, no one came aboard after us, and I saw no one who is trouble. Besides, it is dark up there and no one ever recognizes me. Why don’t you get some sleep? Better to be fresh when we reach New Lisbon, don’t you think?”
She sighed, then nodded and set Ariadne’s hat atop their luggage so she could lay down. Her eyes closed. Edrith got up to lower the flame on the little lamp and sat, back against the outer bulkhead. She won’t sleep. Well, I doubt I will either, even if I am certain the ship is clean; nothing about this whole last trip has gone right. He twisted partway around so he could look up at the narrow little window; it was getting dark out there. By the motion, they were moving into deep water. He’d be able to go up top, maybe pick up on some gossip—if no one was in the passage, let Chris know they were all right so far.
All right. Hah. It didn’t feel right, hiding in the belly of a train and then a ship, not having his finger on the local pulse. And that is why you feel discomfort now, he told himself firmly. The only reason, surely; there hadn’t been the slightest hint of trouble since Podhru, many long days behind them now. No one could have expected us to take a train down to here, and then a ship back up to New Lisbon. Dupret has only so many men, and same for those who bring him the drug, or take it to Rhadaz. For all those who know Chris, they still aren’t so many set against the entire population.
Dija breathing softly and evenly. She wasn’t really sleeping, he was fairly certain. I couldn’t sleep myself—not the nerves but the water. They were running with a strong current, all at once, outside the harbor for certain. The ship came about suddenly; he heard men running across the deck and the chain rattled down the hull. Anchored already. And the ship is wallowing. I hope Chris manages this better than he normally might. With luck, his friend would be asleep. Edrith eased himself from the bed; Dija sat up at once. He smiled, he hoped reassuringly, and said in soft Rhadazi, “I will go see what happens up there, and come back at once to let you know. Stay here, do you promise me?” She hesitated, finally nodded. “Remember your promise to her as well, Dija,” he added. “Do nothing, call no attention to her or to Chris. It could be dangerous.”
“I will not.”
“Bar the entry behind me. I will knock three, a pause, then two.”
“Three, a pause, two.” She got off the bed, brushed down her skirts, and followed him to the door. He waited until he heard the bar fall, then started up the passage. It wasn’t entirely dark here, thanks to a lantern at each end. No one else in sight, and only one other private cabin down here, so far as he could tell. That door wa
s closed earlier, it is closed now, it must be theirs. He let his fingers trail across the thin wood, drummed them lightly as he passed, then clung to the carved rail as he climbed the steep stairway. A gust of wind hit him as his head broke into the open; he edged cautiously onto the deck.
There was something of a westering moon: bright enough, but sailing in and out of thick cloud. Two enormously tall, thin black men leaned against the rail, gesturing extravagantly, talking in their own language. Farther along the rail, two sailors worked to secure a heavy rope, while a third waved his arms wildly and jabbered in rapid, nearly indecipherable French.
There were, as he’d suspected, no other passengers—not on deck, at least. The ship rolled, lurched into a trough; Edrith clutched the rail and, moving slowly and hand over hand, found himself a place near the stem that was largely out of everyone’s way.
The air was much cooler out here, the breeze stiff but refreshing. The water looked ugly: all white-capped waves. Still, not as bad as the last time he’d taken ship, with a furious Ariadne and a very ill Chris. I dislike rough water, and this ocean altogether. I wonder if I would like Chris’s airships any better, though? At least they didn’t travel through water. He gripped the rail hard, stared into the distance until he found land—not as distant as he’d have thought, but much farther than he could ever hope to swim. Farther along to the south, a few lights—San Philippe, and a nearer light that must be the marker for the end of the harbor. He felt very vulnerable out here all of a sudden. Ernie is right; I must learn how properly to swim. I think Chris could reach land from here, and possibly so could Ariadne. Dija and I would drown. And Vey would haunt me forever.
One of the crew behind him ran down the deck toward the prow, shouting urgently in bad French, then in his own language. Edrith frowned. Ship? Boat? He stared across open water, shading his eyes against the harbor lamp and the distant shore lights. Gloom was suddenly broken by moonlight: he could see it now, too, a nobleman’s shallow-water pleasure-boat, its brilliantly patterned sails bellied to their fullest. Light flickered from the bow; one of the sailors aboard the Maborre ran barefoot across the deck with a shielded lantern and flashed an answer. A gabble of voices behind him, French, English, and the little brown sand gods knew what else all together; he picked some sense from it all with four years’ ease of practice, and some of the tension went from his shoulders. A passenger who expected them to sail at the posted hour and was surprised by the storm and early departure. No doubt angry for having to chase Maborre down.
