Tantamount

by Thomas J. Radford

  “That was just Quill,” Violet said, giving her tail a savage whip. “He was just venting. Gabbi never poisoned nobody. I've been helping her out in the galley.”

  “You seem to be everywhere on this ship,” Sharpe observed. “Should be running it someday.”

  “Skipper runs the ship, Mister Sharpe,” Violet said.

  “And you do the running. I see,” Sharpe nodded. He looked down at the bowl of soup. “This might be easier if I had a spoon.”

  “Sorry.” Violet grinned at him. “Skipper's got all the spoons still. Haven't had time to go dig them out yet.”

  “Dig them out?” Sharpe repeated. “Dig them out of what?” He cocked an eyebrow at the skipper in confusion.

  The skipper ignored him. “Maybe you should get to that,” she suggested to Violet. “The digging.”

  Violet's eyesight was coming back, and for the first time she got a good look at the damage to the Tantamount. “The ship sure took a hammering, Skipper.” She scampered up to one of the breaches and knelt down beside it. The hole was big enough to fit her head and shoulders through. She could see through to the edge of the Tantamount's envelope. This close she could see something she'd never noticed before, how the miasma broke and roiled like surf on a beach before it reached the wooden hull.

  “All that black mist outside, how come it doesn't come through?” she asked, looking back at the skipper. “We got more holes in us than Gabbi's galley even and the miasma's just floating out there.”

  “The ether keeps it out,” Sharpe said, blowing on his soup.

  “How?” Violet asked him.

  Sharpe glanced at the skipper. “You mind?” he asked. “She's your crew; you don't mind me educating her some?”

  The skipper raised her eyebrows. “Not at all.” She leaned against a post and folded her arms. “Seems she could do with some educating.”

  “Skipper!” Violet protested.

  “You should know this already, Violet.”

  Sharpe spoke up before she could answer that rebuke. “You know how ships like this fly, right? Pack the hull and the keel full of ether and get a navigator to push the thing out into space. Going through the atmosphere is like taking a breath before you go swimming, the ship drags some of the air out with it.”

  “Yeah.” Violet fidgeted impatiently. “I know all that. What's it got to do with keeping the mist out?”

  “That black mist, that miasma, is like ether. Or ether is like a solid form of mist, they repel each other like a couple of magnets. You get the opposing magnets and they push each other apart, same with mist and ether, the mist is trying to get in but the ether keeps it out.”

  “It's a balancing act,” the skipper added. “Too much ether in the hold and the ship won't fly, it pushes all the miasma away. You sink. Too little and you don't have an envelope, so you can't trap any air.”

  “Exactly,” Sharpe nodded. “The pressure of the mist trying to get in is what keeps your feet stuck to the floor. In fact,” he added conspiratorially, “since there's no other gravity out here, up and down is all relative to where you put the ether in your ship. That's why it goes in the keel and the bottom of the hull.”

  “So?” Violet glanced down. “What does that mean?”

  “It means if you went out through that hole,” Sharpe pointed, “and climbed down underneath the ship, your feet would stick to the hull of the ship.”

  “Really?” Violet took half a step towards the breach. “You mean it? I'd be upside down then?”

  “Sort of, well no, only from our point of view, from yours you'd still be right ways up.” Sharpe gestured vaguely with one hand, then looked at the still steaming bowl of soup. “It's like this,” he said, pointing at the bowl. Holding the bowl one handed he swung it back and over his head, upside down, before quickly bringing his arm back down and holding the soup out on the flat of his hand in front of him.

  “It's like that,” he said. “The force of me swinging it keeps it in the bowl even when it's upside down. Same with the ether and flying this ship. If you climbed through that hole then to me and the skipper you'd be upside down but to you it would seem like normal. They call it void walking and . . .”

  And if it works for a bowl of soup . . .

  “Don't!” the skipper snapped, when Violet put a hand to the edge of the breach. The skipper glared at both of them. “That's enough planar theory for one day. Go get those spoons, Vi, I don't want to find any in my cabin when I turn in tonight.”

  “Aye, Skipper,” Violet sighed, disappointed, but she moved quickly. She gave Sharpe a grin as she went.

  Void walking, have to remember that for when the skipper's not around. Maybe talk to Piper . . .

  “Sweet girl,” was Sharpe's observation, taking another cautious sip from the bowl. “You know, this soup's not that bad, actually. My compliments to your cook. I'm almost willing to forget all those nasty rumours I heard about her.”

  “You can compliment her all you like,” Nel replied. “I won't stop you and neither will she. But unless you want to be face deep in that soup you like so much that's the last time you put any ideas about void walking in my cabin girl's head.”

  “Educating, Skipper.” Sharpe smiled. “And I did ask first. Maybe I made my first friend aboard this ship.”

  “Violet's a good kid,” Nel said. “She doesn't need someone like you . . .”

  “Someone like me?” Sharpe interrupted, grinning.

  “Watch yourself,” Nel said. “And get yourself above deck. I don't like having oil lamps down here. Fire hazard.”

  “Aye, Skipper,” Sharpe mockingly echoed Violet's words. “As you say.”

  “Gabbi,” Violet called. “Where do you want these?”

  “What?” Gabbi turned, waving a hand to see through the cloud of steam that was filling the galley. The cook eventually spotted Violet with her armful of cutlery.

  “Is that from Nel's cabin?” Gabbi flushed at the sight of half a serving set in Violet's arms. “Put it in the tub. I'll wash it down before anyone eats with it.”

  “Skipper's wall looks like a dartboard,” Violet said. She'd had to chip at the timbers to get the utensils free, bending more than a few and picking up splinters in the process.

  “Lost my temper,” Gabbi muttered, turning back to her pots. “Quill . . . damned Kelpie.”

  She gestured and a box skidded across the floor, stopping at her feet. The way Gabbi and Quill made things move like that tugged at Violet.

  “How do you do that?” she asked wistfully.

  “Thaumatics,” Gabbi said.

  “Yeah, but how?”

  “Just do.” Gabbi asked, “How do you move that tail of yours, then?”

  “My tail?” Violet twitched her tail, grabbing a self-conscious handful of bushy fur. “I dunno, I just do. It's a tail, what else?”

  “See, you can't explain that?” Gabbi shrugged. “Make your head hurt just thinking about it. Same for thaumatics. Some folks have ’em, some don't.”

  That didn't seem like enough of an explanation. “Mister Sharpe and the skipper were explaining ether to me before,” she said. “It's gotta be something like that.”

  “Mister Sharpe?” Gabbi grinned at her. “He that one you brought aboard then? Not bad looking, that one.”

  “Bandit and I think there might be too much steam in your eyes, cook,” Piper rumbled, appearing at the doorway with armfuls of sailcloth. Bandit was perched on his shoulders carrying a hammer and mouthful of nails.

  “You just focus on fixing that wall, Piper.” Gabbi pointed at the holes in the wall separating the galley from the skipper's cabin. What was left of it, anyway. “Skipper's mad enough without having holes in her cabin.”

  Piper opened his mouth to say something then thought better of it. He grinned at Violet and handed her one corner of the cut down sail he was carrying.

  “This will have to do for now,” he said. “The skipper will manage. The skipper also tells me we need to work on our signal
ling, little one. Something about your sojourn to rescue our new friend.”

  Violet flushed. “I . . . might have forgotten a few.”

  “We will work on them,” Piper assured her. “These things cannot be rushed.”

  “Piper, explain thaumatics to me,” Violet changed the subject as they stretched the sailcloth over the wall, covering the holes Gabbi and Quill's fight had left.

  “Thaumatics?” Piper frowned, taking the hammer and starting to nail the sailcloth into the wall. “Ah, wizardry. Alas, little one, that one I cannot explain.”

  “Why?”

  “It's not wizardry, Piper,” Gabbi said.

  “I cannot explain because I am not a wizard like our friends Gabbi and Quill.” Gabbi snorted at Quill's name but Piper didn't seem to notice. “How would you explain sound to a deaf man, sight to the blind? No, I do not think it is for us to know, little one. Leave it to the wizards.”

  “Piper, it's not wizardry,” Gabbi repeated. “You'll confuse the girl.”

  “Then explain it to me,” Violet said, exasperated. “Why is that so hard?”

  “Later,” Gabbi said, shaking an empty box critically. “Right now I need more salted meat for the slush fund.”

  The slush fund. That was one of Violet's least favourite duties. Boiling salted meat until it was a sickly grey colour produced an excess of fat and grease. Gabbi collected that grease and sold it when the Tantamount made port. The slush fund, as the crew called it.

  “Go find Jack for me, Violet,” Gabbi said. “I don't know where he's been storing the meat lately.”

  “Are we done here, Piper?” Violet asked.

  Piper stepped back from the wall, studying their work critically. The sail covered the holes into the skipper's quarters but it wouldn't do much to stop noise coming through. Still, Violet thought, quieter than slinging a hammock with the rest of the crew below decks.

  “It appears so.” On his shoulder, Bandit chirped. Piper turned his head towards his pet.

  “Bandit wishes to go with you.” He looked thoughtful. “Very well, but hurry back, the both of you. We will have lessons later.”

  Violet held out an arm and the loompa jumped, transferring to her. He ran up her arm and settled on her shoulder, clinging to her hair.

  “Don't pull,” she warned him, feeling his small hands becoming tangled. Bandit squawked a reply. Violet laughed at his small, screwed up face. She didn't believe Bandit talked in quite the way Piper made out but she could read his moods well enough.

  “Where's Jack, Bandit?” she said to him once they made their way down the ship. The loompa didn't jump off her shoulder and lead her to the sailor, as Violet had secretly hoped he would, but tightened his claws on her shoulder. Violet saw why.

  At the other end of the ship, atop the bridge, Quill had fixed his gaze on them. Violet shuddered as the Kelpie's cold regard swept over them. It was clear the ship's navigator was still fuming.

  The ship started to bank at that point, tilting to one side as Quill pushed the sails to make a change in their course. Violet heard a snapping sound and out of the corner of her eye caught sight of a water barrel starting to lean. It passed the tipping point and crashed to the deck, rolling straight for her.

  Violet heard a yelp, unsure if it was from her or Bandit and jumped, catching hold of the railing leading to the forecastle. She swung her legs up just in time—the barrel hit the side banister and ruptured, water flooding over the deck and Violet.

  “The hells was that, Quill?” Violet yelled one of the skipper's favourite expressions at the navigator, who appeared unconcerned. She was soaked, the light downy fur on her arms and legs was sodden, to say nothing of the tail which soaked up the water in sponge-like quantities. Violet had to resist the urge to shake and ring it out.

  Quill shrugged, barely deigning to look at her. “The water barrel was unsecured.”

  “Yeah?” Violet said. “It just happened to almost crush me? You just happened to have to turn the ship just as I was in the way?”

  “I wouldn't waste the barrel,” Quill dismissed her accusation. He turned his attention away from her. “Make sure that is cleaned up.”

  Violet bristled at the order, knowing she'd actually have to do it. Quill outranked her, hells, everybody on the ship outranked her. And she still had to find Jack!

  A chirp from above caught her attention. Bandit was up in the rigging—she hadn't even noticed he was gone. Jumped ship at the first sign of danger, the little rat.

  “Get down from there,” she called.

  Bandit ignored her and darted higher up the ratlines. Violet tracked him and saw him frolic amongst the sailors in the rigging. Mostly they ignored the critter as they trimmed sails and pulled lines. He settled on the shoulder of one sailor at the extreme end of the yard. Jack.

  “Oh, hells,” Violet whispered. She thought to call out but knew he wouldn't hear her. She'd have to climb up.

  Gingerly she set bare feet to cordage. Ratlines, thin cords strung between the shrouds formed ladders up into the sails. Violet used her legs to propel herself up into those sails. And the higher up she climbed the more the mast swayed, every slight adjustment Quill made to their course amplified. When she reached the spar where the Tantamount's sailors were working, Violet paused, hugging the mast to steady herself. She felt the first touch of nausea and she'd yet to step out onto the footrope. Glancing down she could see Quill staring up at her.

  I'm just imagining that smile, Violet thought as the ship twitched again.

  “All right there, lass?”

  “Fine, Cyrus,” Violet told the sailor closest to her as she hugged the mast.

  “What do you need?” Cyrus grinned. “Come up for a spell in the nest?”

  Violet shuddered at the idea. The crow's nest was the worst place to be on the ship. Even seasoned crew got motion sickness whilst up there. Most saw it as a form of punishment.

  “Need to talk to Jack,” she said.

  Cyrus jerked his head. “He's out on the horse.”

  “I can see,” Violet said unhappily.

  Cyrus chuckled. “Off you go then, lass.”

  The spar ran out from the side of the mast, extending over the edge of the ship. A footrope ran the length of the spar so the crew had something to stand on. Near the far end where it was attached it became too steep to find purchase, so a second and shorter rope, the horse, was hung. Two footropes provided an unstable purchase, so it was the most experienced sailors who found themselves out on the far end. Sailors like Jack, who Violet needed to get to.

  She edged round Cyrus first, which meant leaning out behind him and swinging round to the other side. Not ideal.

  Cyrus leaned in towards the spar to help her. The second sailor was not so helpful, annoyed at having his work interrupted. Violet almost missed her footing and might have got into trouble. Jack's gnarled hand launched out and closed on her upper arm, hauling her back in.

  “Not so lucky up here,” Jack rumbled at her.

  “What?”

  “Saw that barrel miss you down there.”

  “It didn't miss me, I jumped.”

  “Yeah, lucky.”

  “What's luck got to do with it?”

  “Kitsune tails. Lucky,” Jack stated.

  “My tail ain't lucky, Korrigan Jack,” Violet snapped.

  “You got it wet,” Jack said critically. “Maybe it's no good wet.”

  “Stop looking at my tail!”

  “Don't look right wet,” Jack grunted. “Why's the Kelpie looking at us all angry?”

  “Because he's a Kelpie,” Violet muttered, glaring down at Quill. The navigator's head jerked away, determinedly trying to act busy. “What is his problem?”

  “Weak stomach,” Jack chuckled. “Now what do you want, girl?”

  Violet remembered why she'd come up in the first place. “Gabbi needs to know where you put the salted meat. She can't find anything the way you pack the hold.”

  “Couldn't wait for me t
o be done with the sails? Why didn't you just signal me from down below?”

  Violet started to say something, before realising Jack was right. She could have signalled him from the deck. Except she couldn't remember how. She turned away from Jack instead, starting the shuffle back towards the ratlines.

  With Jack and Bandit trailing her she made the journey back to the main deck. The wood was wet underfoot, causing Jack to stop and stare at his feet.

  “That tail of yours ain't the only thing that got wet.”

  Violet shrugged. “Quill said it weren't tied off proper.”

  “'Course it weren't. Look at all this. Find a mop and bucket.”

  “Don't tell me what to do, Jack.” Violet was annoyed at the way he was talking to her. First her tail and now with the orders. She'd been sent to get him to do his job, not to be fobbed off herself.

  “Why not?” Jack said. “You got better stuff to do? You're getting mouthy girl, but we all still get to tell you what to do. So get to mopping.”

  He left her there, seething. Violet stomped the deck for a moment before relenting, as if she had a choice. She found a mop and began to push the puddles of water around the deck with it. She squeezed the handle of the mop as she worked, grinding her hands, then winced suddenly as she caught some of the splinters she'd got from digging out cutlery in the skipper's cabin. She'd forgotten about those.

  “Having fun there?”

  Violet had been so engrossed in her sulk she hadn't heard Sharpe come up. He was in annoyingly cheerful spirits, though he was moving somewhat gingerly and holding one hand to his injured ribs.

  “Does this look like fun?” Violet planted the mop on the deck and leaned on it, glad for the excuse to avoid the job.

  “I was a cabin boy once,” Sharpe recalled, sweeping a gaze along the length of the ship. “Litany of Gabrielle, that was my first ship. I rubbed my knuckles raw scrubbing her deck and my feet down to nubs running orders from one end to the other.”

  Violet fidgeted with her own hands, the palms rough and callused from hard labour.

  “Been here a while then?” Sharpe commented. “Long enough to thicken your skin.”