by Traci Chee
The ship’s carpenter was just as she’d imagined him: the round mountains of his shoulders; the brown, sun-lined face and the bandanna tied around his forehead; the splintery abused hands spotted with scars and pitch. He even smelled right—like oakum and wood shavings.
As if sensing her watching him, Horse looked up, bleary-eyed. “What?”
Sefia felt her cheeks go hot. “This is really the Current of Faith, isn’t it?” she asked. “You and Doc . . . everyone . . . you’re all really here?”
“For now,” Horse murmured.
She looked around the room. It was exactly as the book described it, down to the way everything came in even numbers: the hooks on the door, the chairs, the cabinets on the walls. The glass cases contained dozens of keepsakes: a ruby the size of a man’s fist, a wedge of gold shaped like a sandwich, even the Thunder Gong she’d read about in the book. She felt like she’d been dropped onto the page, among the letters, or like the book had somehow drawn the Current to them, as if it were all preordained. She swayed.
Archer blinked at her, and the corners of his mouth turned upward, dimpling the skin of his cheek. They were here, and they were still together.
At his forearm, Doc’s hands wove in and out of each other, swift and silent as shadows.
“Can’t believe I didn’t see it before.” Horse coughed. “You’re the kids from Black Boar.”
“You were on the pier?”
Horse bobbed his huge head a few times. “Funny little world, ain’t it?”
“Yeah,” she said faintly. Her gaze was again drawn to the objects on the shelves: A rusty iron key. A black box inlaid with ivory. A necklace, its square blue sapphires girdled by glittering diamonds coated in dust, except where a few fingerprints allowed the light to strike through. She blinked, and in her vision she caught glimpses of Captain Reed fingering the necklace. A cloud of ash. And the most beautiful woman she had ever seen, wearing the necklace like a collar, gaining eternal youth. That was what the necklace did. And if you were beautiful, well . . . it let you keep that too. No matter how old she was, the woman was always surrounded: by men, by flowers, by laughter, by children . . . and then by disease, by screams, and smoke.
“The Cursed Diamonds of Lady Delune.” Closing her eyes, Sefia rubbed her aching temples.
“As the story goes, the captain was the only man to ever get her out of those diamonds. She turned to dust as soon as he’d unhooked it.” Horse sighed. “I reckon that’s what she wanted, in the end. The Lady didn’t live a very happy life.”
Sefia thought of the woman from her vision: Though she never grew older, she became colder and colder as the years passed, as her parents and husbands and children and grandchildren were struck down by plagues and fires and cart accidents and suicides and withering old age.
“There’s more to life than being young and beautiful . . . or happy, for that matter.” Sefia thought of her own life. She wasn’t living to be happy. It had been a long time since she’d wanted something as simple as happiness.
“Ain’t that the truth, kid.”
“My name is Sefia,” she corrected him.
Horse nodded and sipped at his flask. “Right. Sefia. You’re quite the pair, the two of you. I hope—”
The door swung open, and cold air flooded the great cabin, making Sefia shiver. Horse sat up straight, tucking away the flask as the chief mate entered, dangling their packs from one hand. Sefia looked eagerly for the familiar rectangle of the book and was relieved to see its outline straining against the leather. The mate dumped their packs casually in the center of the floor, but she noticed the way his arm jerked back, as if he could not wait to be rid of them. She resisted the urge to gather her pack up in her arms.
Then the captain entered. She recognized him by his bright blue eyes, his air of command, and the black gun he held in one hand. She had been excited to see him—the real Captain Reed!—but at the sight of him her excitement congealed in her stomach. He was angry. His anger seethed under his skin and behind his teeth. This was not the Reed from the stories.
“What’s the damage?” he asked.
Archer pushed himself into a sitting position, wincing a little. The doctor sighed and began stitching a deep cut on Archer’s shoulder. “Eleven wounds total, six needing stitches, two broken ribs. I think even you’d be proud, Captain.”
Reed ignored the humor in the doctor’s voice. “And the girl?”
Sefia spoke up for herself. “Fine, sir. Archer did the fighting, not me.”
The captain stared at her for a long moment—long enough for her to wish she could swallow her words and disappear into the floorboards—but she did not look away.
“Horse?”
The big carpenter waved him off with a meaty hand. “Nothin’ more than a bruised backside, Cap,” he said.
Reed jerked his head toward the door. “Get goin’, then.”
Horse stood instantly, though he winked at Sefia. As he passed the captain, he leaned over and whispered, just loudly enough for her to hear: “They’re good kids, Cap. If it comes down to it, you can count on my eatin’ a bit less and workin’ a bit more. I’ll even kick in my wages if it comes to that.”
Sefia smiled faintly.
If the captain was surprised, he gave no sign, and Horse put his large hand on the doc’s shoulder, where she laid her dark cheek against him as she continued stitching Archer’s wounds.
A touch so small that communicated so much.
He squeezed her shoulder once and withdrew, slipping out the door into the cool night air.
The captain sat down in the chair Horse had occupied and placed his black revolver on the table. Sefia watched it warily. While the chief mate stood behind them, Reed unrolled a leather packet and took out a set of tools, lining them up in neat rows. Without a word, he began cleaning his gun, opening it up and removing the bullets, checking the cylinder. He attached a small square of cloth to the end of a metal stick and began jabbing it down the barrel and through the chambers—eight times. It was clear that no one was going to speak until the doctor had left, so Sefia simply watched.
The black gun was beautiful, all gold inlay and ebony carved like dragon scales, but up close she could see how damaged it was: pitted and scratched, flecked with age and long-forgotten acts of violence. The entire length of the grip was cracked, with a deep seam visible where it had been glued back together.
She narrowed her eyes, feeling for the lights that simmered beneath the physical world, and then she blinked, slipping into her Vision, which she’d begun thinking of as having a capital V. As Reed began scrubbing the Executioner with a small brush, the history of the black gun rushed over her.
A flurry of gunshots, a spray of blood, and the wet crack of a body hitting the water. Then her Vision shifted, and she saw the former captain of the Current, a man with a kind face and a bulbous nose, put the Executioner to his temple.
An explosion—fire and flesh and bone.
The black gun hit the deck, its grip fracturing on impact.
Moments later, Reed heaved himself onto the deck, dripping with seawater that made his shirt cling to his chest, revealing the landscape of musculature and black ink beneath. The ocean puddled at his feet as he reached for the broken gun.
She gulped and sat back, blinking rapidly. Her gaze darted once to the packs.
The doctor finished bandaging Archer’s wounds and snapped her black bag closed. Standing, she pushed her glasses higher on the flat bridge of her nose and focused on the captain. “Cooky told you?” she asked.
Reed flicked his eyes at Sefia and nodded.
What had Cooky said? Did he blame her for Harison’s death? Because she hadn’t pressed hard enough, hadn’t stopped enough of the blood? There had been so much blood, going so fast. She chewed the inside of her lip.
The doctor nodded at Archer, then at her.
Sefia wanted to thank her, but the stony silence of the room was forbidding, so she only nodded back. The doctor left the room, and then Sefia and Archer were alone between Captain Reed and the chief mate.
Reed finished wiping down the Executioner and began applying drops of oil to its moving parts, working the action a few times. He did everything in even numbers, just as the legends said. Then he rolled up the cleaning kit, set the gun on the table, and lined up the remaining rounds in a neat row of four.
“I remember you two from the dock,” he said, tracing two interconnected circles on the tabletop, his finger leading into one and out of the other, over and over. “Didn’t expect to see you again, though.”
“No, sir,” she said.
“You know who I am and what ship you’re on?”
Sefia nodded.
“Then you know how peculiar it is for us to see intruders here. Tonight, I caught three of you, and one of my crew died. Now, that raises some questions. Dependin’ on how you answer ’em, I might kill you, or if I’m feelin’ lenient, drop you on a deserted island to get picked up by the next ship that comes by. You understand?”
Sefia looked back over her shoulder, and the mate turned his cloudy eyes on her. With a start, she saw the gray in them was from scarring: punctured places in his eyes that had healed over time. She swallowed. All the stories said the mate could sniff out lies like a bloodhound. She’d have to tell the truth. A truth that wouldn’t get her and Archer killed.
Then she looked at Archer, who was sitting beside her, cradling her hand in his bandaged one.
He nodded, his golden eyes never leaving hers.
Whatever she said next, it was going to determine whether they lived or died. He had kept them alive on Black Boar Pier, and now it was her turn. She took a deep shuddering breath and looked back at Reed.
“We understand.”
The captain spun the cylinder of the Executioner once, then fired his first question: “Who are you?”
“I’m Sefia and this is Archer,” she answered.
“He don’t answer for himself?”
She glanced at Archer, who shook his head. “He can’t speak,” she said. “I don’t think he remembers how.”
Reed’s gaze flicked over her shoulder to the mate, who must have nodded. “How’d you get on my ship?” he asked.
“We’ve been here since Epidram, when we accidentally stowed away in one of your crates.”
“Accidentally?”
“We didn’t know it was yours. We just needed a place to hide.”
“How many more of you are out there?”
She shook her head, confused. “It’s just us, sir.”
“How did Harison die?”
“The woman knifed him in the throat. I tried . . .” Tears rose in her eyes and she rubbed them away. But she couldn’t help thinking of the way he had gone so still. “I tried to save him, but by the time the doc came, he was already dead.”
“Who was the woman?”
Sefia went cold. Her hands clenched into fists. “I don’t know. But she kidnapped my aunt.” She didn’t mention the scent of metal, or how the air had been laced with it the day her father died.
“What for?”
Her gaze flicked to her pack. Should she tell them about the book? It would be worse to be caught in a lie.
“She wanted the book.” Sefia felt the color drain from her face. The only person who knew she had the book was Nin. Did that mean . . . She thrust the thought away immediately.
“What’s a buck?” Captain Reed’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
“A book. It’s . . . it’s this thing I have.” Sefia grabbed her pack from the floor and began rummaging around inside it, her fingers groping for the shape of the book. She pulled it out; after the bewildering events of the past hour and the sudden intersection of her journey and the Current’s, it felt solid and familiar in her hands. It made her feel real. As she folded back the leather wrapping, the chief mate grunted behind her, like he’d been punched in the stomach. Archer turned, and Reed frowned at him, but no one said anything.
“This is a book.”
She held it out to the captain and in one swift movement he was on his feet, hand outstretched, fingertip brushing the edge of the cover.
But he didn’t take it. He looked at it suspiciously for a moment before unhooking the clasps and lifting the cover—as if it were a box and he were expecting to peer inside at whatever magical object it contained—
Reed turned on her. Before she could even react, the Executioner was pointed between her eyes.
Archer shoved her out of the way. The book flew from her hands, pages splayed, bookmarks scattering. She hit the floor. Behind them, the chief mate had drawn on Archer. The boy froze.
Sefia sat up, rubbing her elbow. Only three rounds remained on the table. The captain had loaded and cocked the weapon in less than a second. “Archer, don’t,” she said. Then, to Reed: “It’s not dangerous. It won’t hurt you.”
The chief mate shifted. “The boy saved Horse,” he said.
Captain Reed set the Executioner back on the table and sat down again. “That’s why he’s still breathin’.”
Archer bent down to help Sefia to her feet, but she motioned for him to sit. She began collecting her bookmarks from the floor: the green feather, the pressed leaves. She would never be able to find her place again now—all the stories she had been reading were lost among the infinite pages. Gingerly, she gathered the bookmarks into the book and put it on the table.
“Why did you do that?” She studied his face, the lines of confusion and anger. He didn’t like what he’d seen. Distrusted it, maybe even feared it.
Reed scratched his chest. “What are those marks?”
“Words.”
“Words are things you speak, not things you see.”
“These are words too. Just . . . in a different form.”
Reed narrowed his eyes. “What’s so special about them?”
“I don’t know.”
The mate made a small movement behind her.
“That’s the last time you lie to me.” This time the captain didn’t pull his weapon on her. Instead, he slid the remaining three rounds into the empty chambers and filled the rest from a pocket of his cleaning kit. He flipped the cylinder back into place and holstered the weapon. She realized why he had been cleaning it: he could only clean it after he’d killed, because every time the Executioner came out, someone died. At the same time, she understood that if he drew on her again, he was going to kill her.
“I mean—” She fumbled the words. “I don’t fully understand it yet, but there’s something magical about them. I can see things . . .”
“Like the mate?”
“No, not exactly.” She tilted her head, thinking. “Or . . . maybe? I can tell where something’s been, who had it. That sort of thing.”
“And this magic is what hid you from the mate?”
“I don’t know. We spent most of our time in the crate. We tried not to make much noise.”
Reed waved her theory off. “He shoulda been able to sense you either way.” He eyed the book. “So this is what that woman wanted, huh?”
She traced the on the cover. “Yes.” The word was barely more than a whisper.
“Why?”
“I think my parents were protecting it from her.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t even know they had it until I was nine . . . when my father was killed.” She continued tracing the symbol. Answers. Redemption. Revenge.
“By that woman?”
Sefia shrugged, though she didn’t have the courage to look up, to admit that she had failed again. If the woman in black had found her because Nin had revealed her existence, Nin might be dead already. Sefia might be too late. She balled her fists
and dug her nails into her palm, wanting the pain, wanting some punishment, wanting something to be different because she could never do what had to be done. “I think so,” she whispered.
“And how does Hatchet figure in to all this?”
She studied her palms, the four perfect crescents in her flesh. “He wanted Archer, and I . . . It’s a long story.”
Captain Reed stared over her shoulder at the mate, and after a moment he sighed. “Well, kid, I’ll say this: I don’t believe you’re out to harm me, my ship, or my crew, so I ain’t gonna kill you. Now that gives you two options: either I drop you off, like I said earlier, or I take you with us.”
Sefia straightened at his words, but Reed was still speaking. “Cooky and Horse’ve already vouched for you, and Doc . . . Well, I still got questions that need answers. Here’s the deal: you tell me your story—who you really are, what you’re after, what you know about this buck—and the strength of your story’ll determine whether you stay or go. Them terms acceptable to you, little lady?”
Sefia nodded and lifted her chin. A story to save their lives. She could tell a story. She could at least do that. “My name is Sefia,” she began.
The Place of the Fleshless
In Kelanna, when you die, they put your body on a floating barge. They place you on a pile of logs and blackrock, dry brush and kindling, and they send you burning onto the ocean.
They don’t light candles. They don’t burn fragrant sticks of incense or stacks of paper to send you on your way. They don’t put coins over your eyes so that you will be able to pay the ferryman. They don’t believe in a ferryman. In Kelanna, there is no afterlife to ferry you to.
In Kelanna, when you die, you’re gone. They don’t believe in souls. They don’t believe in ghosts. They don’t believe in calming spirits that walk by your side after your friend or your sister or your father has died. They don’t believe you get messages from the dead. The dead no longer exist.
In Kelanna, when you die, they don’t say prayers for you, for they have no heaven and no gods to pray to. There is no reincarnation; you will not return. Without a body, you are nothing anymore, except for a story.
