Fair Rebel

by Steph Swainston

  ‘Very good,’ I said.

  ‘Peachy. I’ll repay any heartbreak they caused my Lady Tern … a woman of sublime taste and a minx at cards. The loss of her house … all her treasures … her dresses. It beggars belief. Are you finished? Pray join me on deck.’

  He stood up and swept out his coat-tails. I followed his aromatic smoke the length of the deck and up the fo’c’sle steps to the bow. Looking down, you could see the anchor rope issuing from its brass-rimmed eye in the hull, and the ivory-white figurehead, her arms and wings thrown back. She trailed a banner on which was carved Gerygone in raised gold script.

  ‘They round yonder headland.’ Fulmer conjured a telescope and scanned the horizon. ‘This is a clement evening, is it not?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘I do hate to break the silence with cannon fire.’

  ‘Actually, you love it.’

  ‘Pardon me, but I don’t. One should be content to exist beautifully without causing such mayhem, but the smugglers will sail. Have a gander.’ He passed me the telescope.

  Fulmer, like the rarest liquor, is best taken in small doses. He complements his bird-boned face with a cravat of water-grey silk tied four-in-hand. It suits his brown hair short at the back and sides, longer and curly on top. His swallowtail cut-away coat has intricate box-braiding in trefoils on the forearm. A millimetre to the left or right, and it wouldn’t be perfect. As were high-waisted suit trousers, front-pleated, and his sword hanger which boasted eight flawless buckles and a stirrup hilt sabre with acorn tassels (as now worn).

  Beginning as a clerk in the harbourmaster’s office at Tanager, Fulmer used to be very much Eleonora’s man, and her courtier, when she came to power. Well, if you have a wit that quick and moonraking ambition, it’s no good sitting in an office sketching sail plans and dreaming at the oceaned window. Eleonora made him captain of our sister ship when we sailed to Tris and, working to a large degree as her informant, he returned with our caravels packed to bursting with gold and spices. When the last Sailor was killed San opened a contest to find the next, and Fulmer breezed into the Castle and beat his competitors hands down at every trial. He raced to Tris, he knew the route, and brought back yet more wealth for Eleonora. He circumnavigated the Fourlands in the fastest ever time, and loved to say he was the first to set a spatted shoe on the north coast of Awia for fifteen centuries since it fell to the Paperlands.

  So San joined him to the Circle. Fulmer set up the clipper trade to Tris and became a rich man. An incorrigible dandy and a dashed efficient dancer, he is all bonhomie ninety-nine percent of the time, but he hasn’t got used to being Mist. If a sailor disobeys a direct command his grand sense of theatre may well flip, revealing a streak that varies from the waspish to the downright severe.

  The sun sank behind Cobalt cliff top and the sky darkened from pink streaks, through all the shades of purple and the stars began to prickle. The Gerygone ran like clockwork and Fulmer listened to the small sounds of change of tide and watch.

  ‘She tells me if anything’s wrong,’ he smiled. ‘Jant, many Roses are embroiled in smuggling. They know how to move in secret. That schooner is swifter than anything on land. If they’re using her, they’ve already taken your blasting powder anywhere.’

  ‘Everywhere?’

  ‘Potentially. I’m very impressed that you’ve beaten your fear. But perhaps a little fear gives us the zip?’ He aligned his cufflinks and looked at the waves. ‘Do you remember Shearwater Mist?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I met him, once. When I was a boy. And, of course, I was trying to impress him. I said: “I’m not afraid of cold water.” And he said: “I am.” … And that … is the moral of this story.’

  Sails at varying distances were brigantines running coffee, silk cocoons and tobacco to the mills of Hacilith, leaning on the wind fore and aft. The night breeze blew over us. Fulmer stood facing into it and ruffled not a hair. On an unseen cue the sailors extinguished the lamps and we were plunged into darkness. The susurration of the sea came more clearly. It licked and lapped and clicked at our cutwater, but Gerygone gave not a creak.

  Fulmer peered at the horizon. ‘Dead on time!’

  He pointed with his cigarette and handed me the telescope. I looked through it but only saw the black water and the greyer half of the sky above.

  ‘See the star …? A lantern.’

  ‘How can you see a lantern at this distance?’

  ‘Practice.’

  I searched the horizon but couldn’t glimpse anything. ‘They’re miles away!’

  ‘They don’t fancy the sporting odds in buzzing past a man-o-war. They think we’re out of sight.’ He fastened the ’scope to his eye. ‘Ah … the schooner dropped her landing craft! Away she goes! Jant, go catch the rowboat, we’ll run down the schooner.’ He whirled round. ‘Anchors aboard! Sail fore and main – and the boom main – I want her on the starboard tack nor’ nor’ east … Dee? What are you waiting for?’

  ‘Aye ayes’ resounded all over the ship and men swarmed out of the hatches like Insects. They set arms like iron bars to the capstan, their broad backs billowed, and the thing began to turn.

  Fulmer was so clean and snappily-dressed he seemed to stand out in sharp focus, as if suddenly transported from a ballroom to the deck. His intelligent eyes laughed. ‘Now, Jant. Lay aloft, and to Cullion. You’ll find your fifty marines and their captain at the Red Lion on the harbour front. There’ll be no more than four smugglers in that rowboat. You’ll have them. Cullion has a lockup, so you can fling them in custody … Eva! Dee! Tacks and sheets or I’ll haze you!’

  Fulmer was obviously going to spend the next hour shouting his head off – without losing one ruche of his cravat or scuffing his two-tone boots.

  I took off as the Gerygone began to move, angled up into the air, found my pace and flapped higher, out of sight of the ship and her prey. The wind bent the sensitive quills of my flight feathers and brought the memory of Tern running her fingers through them like a harp. Oh, Tern; she’s lost everything and maybe more bombs are being planted at this very moment to kill her.

  I reached the apex of my flight and sailed down with fixed wings towards Cullion Cove. The sea cliff’s black wedge hid it for a second, then opened out and revealed a handful of houses. They looked as if they’d been cast like dice all down the narrow, rocky gorge and out onto the quayside. Their tiled roofs stepped down at varying levels; gritstone wall corners stuck out at angles. The hunter’s moonlight glossed each roof dark red, but the road and stream that cut together through the centre of the town were invisible between them.

  The last of the road’s hairpin bends emerged onto the quay. The stream ran out towards me, and past the humpbacked bridge was the pier. The Red Lion pub stood square and whitewashed beside it. Not a lamp showed there. Few ships dock at Cullion, which lies between the big ports of Awndyn and Peregrine. The clippers sail out of Awndyn to Tris, the coal freighters come in from Wrought, and Peregrine brigantines take luxuries to every part of the Empire.

  I zipped over the cliff top, descended before the dark cliffs with their needle stacks, flew low and fast over the cobble beach, flared my wings and landed in front of the pub.

  A single lantern on the open ocean showed where the smugglers were rowing in. I slipped into the beery barroom.

  CHAPTER 20

  Connell speaks – in the landing craft

  The fat policeman was all in disarray. Lagan poked a knife through his shirt and tilted the blade till it pinched his skin. ‘Not a peep!’ Lagan was stressed and the porky policeman was squirming in the bilges, so I slapped Lagan’s knee and he desisted, sat back on the bench.

  ‘And put the knife away,’ I hissed. Any fool could see it shine. Our boat bucked, rode the crest of a wave and slid down, wallowing, into the trough. Tressel and his boy stepped over the benches, settled down, and figured the oars into the rowlocks.

  One oar each, we set to rowing. The boy was in the stern with the dark lantern a
nd the policeman, trussed hand and foot and gagged, lay in the bilges between our feet. I’m sure all he could see was the sky, and that only out of one eye, because Lagan had closed the other for him. I huffed and strained, my arrow wound burning. Tressel rowed silently. Our oars touched the water, lifted, leaving dots either side of our wake. The mass of the land loomed closer and soon we were in its shadow, which seemed to mute our sound.

  There was no movement, no figures. Cullion was as shuttered and silent as it had been these last three nights. I clicked the telescope closed and dropped it back in my pocket. ‘Eleven o’clock and all’s clear.’

  Lagan grinned. He’d set his foot on the policeman’s cheek. I shrugged, then with a hand on Tressel’s shoulder and the other on the mast base, push-jumped my way between them and into the stern where I took the tiller from the boy and steered into the quay.

  Tressel and Lagan’s oars dipped, breaking the black water almost without sound. Lifted, dipped again, moved us on – I turned the tiller and the pier approached. After such a gradual journey it seemed to grow quickly and came alongside all at once. I tapped Lagan’s broad back and Tressel’s skinny one, they drew in their oars and we were among the bladderwrack. I grabbed one of the pier’s legs and pushed past it scraping the sharp barnacles. The rusty mooring post loomed above. I stood and threw a loop of rope over it, grasped the rickety pier planks, jumped up and looked around. The quay was deserted.

  Tressel joined me, soundlessly. Lagan and the boy rocked the first barrel free and heaved it up to us. With Tressel I grabbed its rim and hauled it onto the pier. Another barrel, and another. Four in all. By the moonlight I caught a glimpse of MICAWATER BRANDY stencilled on the side. Each had a canvas cover and its timbers were smooth. We lined them up and took a breather while Lagan tightened nooses around the policeman’s wrists and ankles. He made a cradle of his hands and his boy stepped up to beside us. Then he planted his foot on the gunwale, scrambled up, and gave us the other ends of the rope. We hoisted the policeman bodily – up through the seaweed, over the edge of the pier. Lagan crouched and wiped his knife on the porker’s stubble.

  He cut his bonds, prodded him to stand, and shot me a glance to say ‘ready’. I laid a barrel down and started pushing it. The others followed, one barrel each.

  It took all my strength to get my barrel going. Pain flared in my forearm from the bound arrow wound where the king had shot me. I pushed my weight against it, my feet out behind, grasped its rim and shoved it on. My peacoat strained across my back. Its hem brushed the barrel as it rolled on its copper band. MICAWATER BRANDY came and went every time the damn thing turned.

  Everyone knows me in this town. The good people here are bonded as close together in spirit as their houses are attached. They’re all in cahoots, the policeman had said. Well, now I wish they could see him stumbling on his lead.

  You see, the houses in the town are connected together. With secret passages, false floors, fake cupboards without backs, hidden rooms. Your contraband can be handled from house to house, from family to family and escape the excise men till they sob in despair. Your bolt of fine silk, your bootlegged whisky or ‘Micawater brandy’ can be handed into a house at the quayside and, passed from home to home, it can make it up to the top of the cliff without ever going outside.

  We reached the end of the pier, lugged our barrels onto the quayside cobbles. I paused for breath and looked to the town.

  A figure detached from the shadow at the side of the pub, ran over and stopped in front of me. A tall silhouette. Jant. So he’s caught up with us! More men clattered out of the darkness, jumped out from behind boat hulls, piles of nets, running down off the bridge parapet and out of the alley. They joined Jant, and our way was blocked.

  Soldiers! Too many! I twitched my hand and my dagger slid into my palm. The action wasn’t lost on Jant. He raised his arm and pointed his pistol at me. Every soldier readied his musket – those on the outskirts dropped to one knee to aim.

  ‘Let Cargeen go,’ Jant said to Lagan. Lagan just screwed the point of his knife through the policeman’s scarf till he yelled. We waited. Jant waited. And I couldn’t see his damn face.

  ‘Let him go.’

  I yelled, ‘You fucking idiot! We’ll never give in! Not while there’s breath in us!’

  Jant slipped his wings out from the back of his coat and slowly opened them. Wider and wider he spread them, longer than you would have thought possible. They splayed behind the kneeling troops, the limbs strung with muscle, the feathers like blades tapered a metre above his head.

  Lagan spat. Slash went his knife across the policeman’s throat. A gout of blood sprayed out. Black drops hung as if in slow motion, and spattered on the boards. Bang! Flame jetted from Jant’s pistol. Lagan fell straight back stiff.

  The soldiers cocked their muskets. ‘All of them,’ said Jant. Flame spat from their muzzles and the air around me sang. Beside me, the boy fell. Tressel spun into the water. I stabbed my knife into the canvas cover of the barrel, slit it open and yanked out the fuse.

  I flicked my lighter and lit it – it started fizzing. Sharp gunpowder smoke leapt into the air. In the sudden flare I saw the Messenger’s eyes open wide. His great wings curled like shields. He turned on his heel and sprang away – I gasped and dived.

  Freezing salt water filled my nose. I hit the water so steeply I somersaulted completely around, opened my eyes through sheets of bubbles streaming past me. All was black. Above me, the wavering underside of the surface. Above that, a distorted point of light shone surrounded by a halo. Then the water, the sky, lit up bright yellow, brighter than day. I saw all the colours in an instant – every detail of the sea bed – my own shadow cast on it. The green water lit into the distance with my hanging shadow as a long streak. Then a tremendous force pressed me down and I coughed out all my air in a big silver bubble. Stunned, I sank, arms, legs outstretched.

  Everything went pitch dark. My body cried out for air. My lungs screamed to expand. I shook myself and beat for the surface, broke the waves and panted in air. A heavy rain was pattering down and all around me things were falling. I couldn’t see anything, couldn’t hear anything but the pounding ringing of my ears, but I sensed great chunks of stuff hitting the water.

  Pieces of the pier, I thought. The barrels. The soldiers. My friends. Spouts jetted up, chopping the waves into rafts of foam. I snatched a painful breath and duck-dived. Underwater, I shook off my coat and struggled out of my boots. Another breath, then I struck away from the quay. Every time I thrust my arms forward I saw their skin dead white between my tattoos like the arms of a corpse. My head was thumping, my ears were singing, and it was further to the shore than I’d guessed. I kicked out again, rose to the surface, but I was giddy. I swam on, trying to keep straight, the headland ahead, directly to the beach, but it seemed miles. At length I was only kicking. Trailing my arms. Then I floated, kicked, and floated. Eventually I could do no more than float, and my arms and legs were numb. My sinuses and eyes stung raw. Then, I became aware of a gentle back and forth movement. When I next kicked, my toes hit the shingle. Gratefully I sank underwater and crawled out.

  I lay where the waves were breaking, feeling each one wash over me and lift me a little. The sea itself was trying to push me out. My cheek pressed on a big, wet pebble and I was oddly pleased at its smoothness. Every time I breathed out ripples ran around it, and all the while the waves played with the lace on my blouse, inflating it and trying to ease it over my head. I felt happy to stay here, growing colder but comfortable because the pebbles were so round and, after all, if I moved I’d be colder still, but I found myself watching a little point of light in the distance. It bounced on the shingle by the pier, backlit by the fire’s red glow that was casting awful shadows down the beach. The point of light zigzagged, pausing here and there but it slowly grew and I realised it was coming towards me. I got onto hands and knees and began to crawl. That just brought the light hastening faster, and it resolved into a lantern held by a
marine. Tall Jant Shira the Messenger was striding beside him hurrying him on.

  ‘—Dead,’ he was saying. ‘Actually fucking killed him!’

  ‘The Emperor will—’ said the marine.

  ‘Will what?’ spat Jant. ‘Have my hide?’

  I flopped down, but they approached until all I could see were the toes of their boots. Jant took the lantern, crouched down carefully and I saw his face. He had wrapped his t-shirt around his head like a turban and it was bloodstained over his ears. His jacket hung off his naked shoulders. On one side it was burned to a cinder and the sleeve was missing. He smelt of scorched wool and melted feathers. He rocked back on his heels and coughed horribly, as the marine raised the lantern above my face.

  ‘It is Connell,’ he said. ‘We’ve got her!’

  ‘Is she still alive?’ said the marine.

  ‘Well … for now.’

  Jant reached out a sooty hand and pushed the strands of hair away from my face. ‘It’s the bitch all right. I’d know that rose anywhere.’

  And the rose knows you, I thought. Then I fainted.

  CHAPTER 21

  Jant again – Back to the ship

  The marine called two other survivors and carried Connell away. I hobbled to the edge of the waves, fell hands and knees in the water and soaked my face and neck. I swished my head from side to side and the chill fucking sea drew some of the heat from my burns.

  These terrorists are prepared to die rather than be captured! I wrestled with disbelief and the agony made it impossible to think. I raised my head and flicked my hair back.

  There, on the horizon, beamed the searchlights of Gerygone closing on the schooner. The schooner that’s carrying gunpowder barrels. If the smugglers light them, she’d go up like a bomb!