The League of Sharks

by David Logan

  When she was about halfway done, they heard footsteps and both Lasel and Junk froze and held their breath. A black-cloaked monk stepped out of a door directly below Lasel and headed off across the adjacent courtyard. He did not look up. As soon as his footsteps faded into the distance, Lasel got back to work on the putty.

  Another minute and the windowpane fell free of its frame. Lasel caught it just before it plummeted to the stone floor below. She tilted it sideways and passed it through the opening, pulling herself in after it. Her toes came away from the eaves and she slithered through so she was half in and half out.

  There was a small ledge on the inside, nothing more substantial than a strip of coving, but she was able to rest the pane of glass on it so it was out of harm’s way. Now she could get a proper look in the chapel and it was indeed empty. She called softly over her shoulder: ‘Take the slack.’ Junk braced himself. Lasel let herself drop through the window and dangled in mid-air. She twisted around so she was the right way up and looked back out at Junk. ‘Let it out slowly.’ Junk nodded and started to feed the rope through his gloved hands.

  Lasel descended to the floor of the chapel and untied the rope from around her waist. Sticking to the shadows as much as she could she hurried to the altar where the bronze box sat unguarded. As Brother Antor had told Junk earlier, many had tried to storm the monastery and all had failed. It was designed to be impregnable and keep rampaging hordes at bay. It was not designed with a single larcenous young woman in mind.

  Lasel stood in front of the box and examined it from every angle, bending and twisting her pliant body to get a more complete view. At first the box did indeed appear to be unguarded. That seemed too easy and, from experience, too easy worried her. Then the light caught on something that was almost but not quite invisible to the naked eye. She had to squint and swivel her head slowly from side to side to see that the base the box was sitting on had a length of glass fibre tied to each corner. Glass fibre was thinner than human hair. It was strong enough to support a heavy weight but delicate enough that the tiniest movement would upset its equilibrium and cause it to snap. It ran to the ceiling and she realized that the base was suspended a minute distance above its plinth.

  She knelt down to study the plinth and a shallow gully that emerged from under it and ran all the way around the altar. Lasel rubbed the tip of her finger along the gully and smelled a mixture of almonds and something more metallic that caught at the back of her throat. She knew at once what it was: landa-tree oil. Extremely combustible. She wiped her finger on her trousers and stood, considering the altar.

  Far from being unguarded, she now saw there was a very elaborate security system around the box. If the glass fibres broke, it would drop down on to the plinth. She could only guess that there was some sort of mechanism within that would shatter a container of landa-tree oil, which would flow out, quickly filling the surrounding gullies, and be lit by a flame from the furnace that would send up a wall of fire. She would be burned to a crisp in seconds.

  Tricky, she thought, but not impossible. She hopped up on to the altar, careful not to disturb the glass fibres. Then she reached down and ever so gently picked up the box. Instantly the fine balance was disturbed, the glass fibres broke, the base dropped, the flame was ignited and a maze of fire whooshed to life, completely surrounding her. The heat was far more intense than she had anticipated. She could feel her eyeballs drying out and shut her eyes tightly. Her throat was instantly scorching and dry. She gasped and inhaled a pocket of air so hot that it singed her insides. The smell of the burning oil was far more acute now and the nutty, metallic odour bubbled in her nose, making her feel nauseous.

  She tossed the box into her cloth sack and took as much of a run-up as she could, opening her eyes only as much as was absolutely necessary. The wall of fire burned violently for a distance of three metres in every direction around her. She skipped across the altar and launched herself off, arms spread wide, legs straight, feet together, toes pointed, propelling herself over the tips of the flames. She could feel her clothes charring as she went. She flew in a perfect arc, landed outside the fire wall, rolled and was on her feet, patting down her smouldering torso and legs. Without pause, she started running for the rope.

  *

  At that very moment, the monks of the Brotherhood of Pire were eating their supper. It consisted of a variety of root vegetables, all equally bland and unappetizing. It was the same meal they had twice a day, every day. It came as a relief to most when the alarm was raised.

  The monks flooded into the courtyard outside the chapel. Brother Antor was first and caught sight of Junk and Lasel racing away across the rooftops. He barked orders to some of his brothers to extinguish the fire in the chapel and the rest to follow him.

  *

  Junk and Lasel darted over the rooftops towards the south side of the monastery and the front entrance. They clambered down so they were outside the robust gate. Lasel dipped into her cloth sack and retrieved a small flask that she had purloined from the Casabia’s armoury. It contained an explosive charge. She pushed a small amount into the lock and fed in a short fuse.

  Inside, Brother Antor and a dozen of his fellow monks rampaged along the corridor towards the gate. As he approached he bellowed at Brother Hath to open up. Brother Hath quickly started pulling back bolts and turning keys.

  Outside, Lasel and Junk could hear the locks being unfastened. The fuse seemed to burn down agonizingly slowly.

  ‘This only works if they don’t turn that key,’ Lasel said to Junk, pointing to the lock with the explosive wedged into it.

  Inside, Brother Hath reached to turn the last key, but hesitated as he saw wisps of smoke snaking out of it. Brother Antor arrived.

  ‘Dan dun do?’ he cried. Brother Hath pointed out the smoke and Brother Antor knew exactly what it meant. He moved quickly to turn the key, but just at that moment the fuse burned down and the explosive sparked briefly to life.

  Outside, the effect was distinctly underwhelming. A short fizzing sound and then nothing.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Junk.

  Lasel turned and smiled. ‘Done,’ she said.

  ‘Done?’

  ‘Fused the lock. They can’t turn the key. Can’t turn the key, can’t open the door.’ She turned to see that the sun had almost set. They would have to hurry. They jumped in the basket and started to descend.

  Brother Antor raced back along the corridor and took a side door into the nearest courtyard, from where he scrambled up on to the roof. He climbed over and jumped down so he was outside the gate. He ran over to the basket and pulley system and looked down. He saw Lasel and Junk were on the ground already and running towards the forest. They had cut the ropes of the pulley so the basket couldn’t be hauled back up. It would take them hours to repair it. They would have a hell of a head start but no matter. He dropped to his knees on the edge of the shelf and started to pray. Brother Antor would go after them and retrieve the box. Then he would kill every last person on board their land-ship.

  19

  Lasel and Junk returned just as the Casabia was about to depart so their absence wasn’t even noted. They waited until they had put some distance between themselves and Murias before revealing their acquisition to Otravinicus and Hundrig. The captain was furious. He knew that such an action would incur the wrath of the Brotherhood and he and his crew would be held no less accountable than Junk and Lasel.

  ‘I’m sorry, Captain,’ said Junk. ‘I had no choice. I hope you understand that.’

  ‘Understanding and condoning are two very different things,’ said Hundrig. ‘Your rash behaviour has endangered my crew. Religious types are unpredictable. Sometimes they turn the other cheek, scuttle into a corner and pray up a storm and sometimes they come looking for you, all brimming with the wrath of God and righteousness. You’d better hope they’re up there right now praising and begging forgiveness. Though if that Brother Rard was anything to go by, I somehow doubt it.’

 
; ‘Captain, if I may,’ said Otravinicus, ‘what’s done is done but this …’ he ran a finger across the cold surface of the box and his eyes glittered with avarice, ‘this is older than the Brotherhood. They have no more right to it than anyone else.’

  ‘I’m not sure they would agree,’ said Hundrig.

  ‘We have a contract, you and I,’ said Otravinicus. ‘You agreed to transport us where we need to go, and until the money I’ve paid you runs out I expect you to honour that agreement. Are you a man of your word?’

  Hundrig growled in his throat. Junk thought Otravinicus’s words were harsh, even hypocritical. After all, the doctor had given his word to Junk and then gone back on it when things didn’t work out to his liking.

  ‘I will keep to our contract.’ Hundrig said the words through clenched teeth.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Otravinicus. ‘Then take us back to Mr Fiske’s island.’

  ‘No,’ said Junk. Otravinicus and Hundrig turned to him.

  ‘No?’ asked Otravinicus. ‘Then where?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ said Junk. ‘I don’t know exactly where the door I came through is. The ocean’s deep there. I might have been ten metres down or a hundred. It’s too big an area to search. What if the key has to be right where the door is to work?’

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ asked Hundrig.

  ‘There’s the other door. The one I entered in my time. If I could take a look at your charts, Captain, I think I could work out exactly where that one was when I went diving. Plus it’s closer to here than Garvan’s island.’

  Otravinicus considered this and nodded. It made sense, and all he really wanted was the Room of Doors. He didn’t care how he got to it. ‘Good, good,’ he said, picking up the bronze box from the table. ‘You work out where we’re going and I’m going to spend some time seeing if I can get this open.’ He left the room.

  Junk looked at Hundrig. ‘I really am sorry if what I’ve done causes you problems, Captain,’ said Junk. ‘It wasn’t my intention.’

  Hundrig sighed, then nodded sagely. ‘I know, Junk. I know.’

  *

  Hundrig called Gaskis in and the three of them pored over the Casabia’s navigational charts. Back when he was working on the Pandora with Timur, the crazy Russian, Junk had plotted the exact spot where the Pegasus had sunk. Though all the land masses had changed and any reference points that they used were now a totally different system and scale, it was possible to use the current charts to pinpoint the last resting place of the Pegasus.

  The country that was called Uuklyn now was basically Greece and a little bit of Albania and a smidgen of Macedonia. Borders and names had changed, coastlines had moved, but there were some reference points that were consistent and that was what Junk used to plot their position. In Junk’s time, Murias was on the northwestern edge of the plain of Thessaly in central Greece, and Corfu, where Junk had been diving with Timur, was due west of their current position.

  According to the charts, the island that had been Corfu was now much smaller. He assumed the rest of the island had been submerged, which meant the part still showing would be what was the highest point in Junk’s time. That would be Mount Pantokrator. Using the summit of that as a reference point, he could work out exactly where the Pegasus lay. From there he could estimate the distance he had travelled from the wreck to reach the green door and he was confident he could get within a metre. They had their coordinates.

  *

  Otravinicus had been sitting for the best part of two hours trying to unlock the bronze box. He was having zero luck. He had tried everything. The box was covered in depressions and gullies, but none of them seemed to be the lid. On top of that there were no hinges that Otravinicus could detect or a catch or any obvious way of opening the thing up. His last attempt involved beating it with a chisel but that had no effect either. He was also unable to mark the box in any way. Whatever it was made from appeared to be indestructible. During his final frenzied assault he managed to slice open the palm of his hand, and he threw the box across the deck in frustration and went off to see to his wound.

  Garvan had been sitting close by, watching quietly. He got up and crossed to where the box lay. He stood over it and looked down at it. Turning his head first one way and then the other, getting an overview of it. Then he bent down and picked the box up.

  He returned to his seat and, holding the box by four of its corners, turned it slowly around in his hands. He did this for several minutes. Just looking.

  Then he heard Otravinicus returning.

  ‘I’m afraid to report that it has stumped me,’ he heard the doctor saying. ‘Damn near sliced off my hand trying to get the stupid thing open.’ Otravinicus and Junk stepped up on to the deck. ‘Maybe it’s broken, I don’t know. Maybe it’s not meant to open.’

  ‘So how do we get the key out?’ asked Junk.

  Otravinicus looked around for the box. It took him a moment to notice Garvan was holding it.

  ‘May I have that, please?’ He held out his hand and Garvan gave it to him. ‘We’re going to need some sort of drill, I think,’ said Otravinicus. ‘I’ve asked the captain – they don’t have the correct tools on board so we’re going to have to find a port somewhere.’

  ‘There’s no need to break it,’ said Garvan.

  ‘You’ve come across a box like this before, have you?’ asked Otravinicus with a sarcastic sneer.

  ‘No,’ said Garvan.

  ‘I thought not. Leave this to me, Mr Fiske. I will get into this box if it’s the last thing I do.’

  ‘Sure,’ said Garvan with a shrug. As Otravinicus turned and started to walk away Garvan called after him, ‘It’s just, you don’t need to break it is all. It’s a puzzle box.’

  Otravinicus stopped and looked back. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Garvan makes puzzle boxes,’ said Junk by way of explanation. He took the box from Otravinicus and held it out to Garvan. ‘Can you solve it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Garvan, but didn’t move to take the box. Junk waited but nothing happened.

  ‘Will you?’ asked Junk.

  ‘OK,’ said Garvan. Now he took the box and placed his big fingers precisely at different points on its surface. Then he twisted both wrists, simultaneously pushing forward then back, twisting again, and suddenly the box opened up like a flower in bloom.

  The six faces spread out to produce a cruciform. The interior was even more intricately and beautifully decorated than the exterior. However, it was empty. There was no key inside. There was nothing.

  ‘I don’t …’ Otravinicus didn’t even try to hide his disappointment. ‘I don’t understand. There’s no key.’

  ‘Yes, there is,’ said Garvan. Otravinicus looked at him hopefully. Garvan went on. ‘It is the key. The box. The box is the key. These lines –’ he picked up the open box and turned it over and back again – ‘they’re not random. You see, it’s a map.’

  Otravinicus frowned as he stared at the box. He saw only meaningless lines and shapes. He shook his head. ‘I don’t see a map.’

  Garvan shrugged, as if to say that’s not my fault.

  ‘A map of what?’ asked Otravinicus.

  ‘The Room of Doors, I suppose,’ said Garvan. ‘Junk said there were thousands of doorways … well, I think this tells you how to navigate them.’

  ‘Can you read it?’ asked Junk.

  ‘No,’ said Garvan. Then, after a lengthy pause, ‘Not yet.’

  ‘But you’ll be able to?’ asked Otravinicus hungrily.

  ‘Given time.’

  ‘Well, why don’t we leave you to study it? See if you can make head or tail of it,’ said Junk.

  ‘Head or tail?’ asked Garvan with his face screwed up, trying to figure that one out. The box had neither.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Junk. ‘Just a saying.’ He led Otravinicus away. The latter left a little reluctantly, eager to find out the secrets of the box.

  *

  Some time later and the
Casabia was anchored above the last resting place of the Pegasus. Or at least where Junk hoped it was. Lethro had already netted half a dozen commusts and was busy cutting out their fluid sacs before returning them to the sea. It turned out that commusts could just regrow fluid sacs quickly and easily and therefore there was a constant supply.

  Garvan was still puzzling over the box. He had spent most of his time just staring at it and Otravinicus was becoming increasingly impatient. His irritation was in turn irritating Cascér, so she decided to dive overboard to reconnoitre below. Hundrig popped one of the commust fluid sacs over her, and as soon as it covered her she was gone.

  ‘We should get ready to go down too,’ said Otravinicus.

  ‘But Garvan’s not worked out the box yet,’ said Junk.

  ‘Clearly,’ said Otravinicus, glaring over to where Garvan was sitting. ‘He’s done little else but stare at it. I fear if we wait for Mr Fiske, we will be waiting for a very long time.’

  ‘But until we know how it works, how are we supposed to use it to open a doorway?’ asked Junk.

  ‘For all we know, Junk, the box may merely need to be in the vicinity of a doorway for it to make itself visible. It’s a worth a try. If it does nothing, we’ve lost nothing.’

  Junk considered this and shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

  *

  Junk left Otravinicus and crossed over to Garvan. He sat down next to him.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘I’m getting there,’ Garvan said, without taking his eyes away from the key.

  ‘What happens next?’ asked Junk. ‘In your dream vision thing, I mean. After we got the box.’

  ‘Well,’ said Garvan, ‘it’s a bit unclear.’

  ‘Unclear?’

  ‘It’s not an exact science. The dream is open to interpretation sometimes. The next part was a bit fuzzy.’

  ‘OK,’ said Junk, ‘what’s your interpretation of what happens next?’

  ‘We get into the Room of Doors, something happens – I’m not sure what, but we have to go our separate ways.’