by Eric Brown
I was quite drunk by the time I staggered from the lounge and into bed. I was sound asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow, and did not awake until I became aware of a slight figure nestling beside me. Loi rested her head on my chest, and such was her size that her bare feet hardly reached my knees. Her wings covered us like a silken counterpane. Strangely content, I closed my eyes and slept.
In the morning she shook Blackman formally by the hand, then stood on tip-toe and kissed me quickly on the lips. ‘Until Charybdis,’ she whispered.
She joined her wings behind her so that they met like hands at prayer, then inserted them through the open window of the bed-chamber. She walked backwards, climbed up onto the sill, and looked behind her. Her wings became a blur of motion, lending her a buoyancy peculiar to witness.
Then, with a wave, she was gone.
* * * *
Our last full day aboard the vench-train proceeded without incident.
We passed through the foothills and entered a great defile cut deep into the rock of the central mountains. Such was the depth of the chasm that only a high, narrow strip of sunlit sky illuminated our way; the blue shadow was cold, the sheer granite flanks of the abyss on either side intimidating. Ahead, the vench were forced to fly in a tight formation, their caws of protest echoing eerily between the rock faces.
Blackman was quiet, whether through the influence of our surroundings, or in contemplation of what awaited him in Charybdis, I could not say. I ate alone at midday, while he stood to attention on a central, uncovered carriage, attempting to soak up what little sunlight fell this far.
He joined me for dinner, seating himself across the table from me with an abstracted nod. We ate bowls of broth - an appropriate dish considering this chill stretch of the journey. I was subdued, my thoughts consumed by the Messenger called Loi.
Overhead, the night sky was a dull orange gloaming; gaslights placed around the dining deck provided the illumination by which we ate.
Blackman mentioned that we were due to arrive at Charybdis at five the following afternoon, and we chatted desultorily about the trip so far. Towards the end of the meal, I said, ‘Can I ask you something?’
Alerted by my tone, he looked across at me warily. ‘Go on.’
‘Well . . .’ I hesitated. ‘I was wondering if ... if liaisons between Messengers and regular humans are accepted on Tartarus?’
He smiled to himself. ‘You are attracted to Loi?’
I blushed, which was answer enough.
‘In general,’ Blackman said, ‘such unions are frowned on by other Messengers - but they are tolerated.’
That night, as I lay in my bed in the abyssal darkness, I could hardly sleep for thinking of the tiny Messenger, and when I did finally fall asleep my dreams were full of her. I dreamed, also, of my father. ‘Love?’ he spat at me. ‘You think yourself in love with an alien creature you hardly know? What folly!’
I awoke in a sweat around midday, some residue of his censure touching my emotions with guilt. Then I reminded myself that I was no longer in the thrall of my father - my arrival on Tartarus and subsequent events had given me a measure of independence and self-confidence I had never possessed before. I told myself that I should consider only my own feelings for the girl and dismiss as irrelevant the opprobrium of the long-dead tyrant.
Then something about the quality of the light which flooded the chamber made me sit up and peer through the window. At some point during the night we had left the dark chasm and emerged on the seaward side of the central mountains.
Hurriedly I threw my possessions into my travelling bag and barged up the stairs. I was not alone in my desire to catch an early glimpse of Charybdis: it seemed that every traveller was above decks. I pushed through the crowd and joined Blackman by the rail. The lofty peaks were far behind us, and we were free-wheeling down a steady gradient between verdant foothills. The vench, released from their labours, were passengers themselves now upon the first two carriages of the train.
Blackman touched my arm. ‘Look. The river St Genevieve. And keep in mind that this is but a minor tributary of the Laurent!’ He pointed across the valley, to where a geometrically perfect arc of water tipped itself from the edge of an escarpment and tumbled fifty metres, all rainbow-spangled spume and thundering power. The river surged on between the pastures, boiling with visible rips and eddies where the treacherous corals tore it from beneath like razors through silk.
Soon, the torrent bisected the outskirts of the township: neat, white timber buildings, A-frames and Dutch-barn houses. For a kilometre the track paralleled the river, until the shining iron rails terminated at the station and the water surged and tumbled on its headlong race towards the river Laurent and eventual rendezvous with the Sapphire sea. At last we had reached Charybdis.
After the medieval hustle and bustle of Baudelaire, Charybdis seemed a rural paradise. The avenues were wide and tree-lined, and the tall, timber buildings stood in their own grounds. Even the centre of town, where the station was situated, was spacious, and the pace of life unhurried.
We climbed from the train with our bags and strolled from the station, into a large cobbled courtyard surrounded by tall trees aflame with copper leaves.
‘Sinclair!’
Loi jumped excitedly from a horse-drawn trap and ran across the cobbles. A giant of a man, whose smile seemed a mixture of tolerance towards the Messenger’s impetuosity, and amicable welcome, climbed down more slowly and followed her.
Loi hugged me, and then made the introductions. ‘Gentlemen, Shipmaster Sigmund Gastarian of the Golden Swan - the finest master on Tartarus.’
The big man, garbed in sailor’s breeches, an armless vest and a tricorne, smiled modestly. He shook hands with Blackman and myself. ‘She exaggerates,’ he said in a quiet voice at odds with his appearance, ‘and from all I hear we have you to thank that she is still able to do so. Welcome to Charybdis. I’ve booked you into the Jasmine as my guests. When you’ve refreshed yourselves, we’ll eat.’
The Jasmine hotel was one of a dozen three-storey timber buildings that lined the Mariners’ Walk, overlooking the wharves of the river. There was much activity along the Walk. ‘Sailors all,’ Gastarian explained, as the trap pulled up outside the hotel. ‘The race commences the day after tomorrow, and the teams are making last minute preparations.’
The lavish meal that the Shipmaster threw in our honour lasted all evening and well into the early hours. Present were the crew of the Golden Swan - some twelve youths of my own age, and their escorts - a five-piece band playing shanties, and, later, a slew of masters and crews from competing ships. There was a strange air about the party that ensued, a mixture of apprehension at what the future might hold, and a devil-may-care determination to live for the minute. I recalled what Greaves had told me about the mortality statistics, and as I looked around at the drunken, happy faces I wondered how many of them might survive this year’s race.
There were speeches and toasts, declarations and promises - I recall Gastarian telling a hushed crowd how we effected the rescue of the Messenger, and demanding from me a few words, but I cannot for the life of me remember what I said, except that it received a roar of approval and the reward of more drink. I recall seeing Loi once or twice, and smiling across at her. But it was as if we were both too shy to come together in company. At one point I saw Blackman and Gastarian deep in debate, and noted that though there were other Blackmen present, none wore black leathers.
I must have spoken to a hundred strangers that night, and downed a dozen measures of alcohol. I have no recollection of getting to my room - but I fancy that Loi must have had a hand in assisting me. When I awoke in the orange-hued early hours, the room spinning and my mouth as dry as sand, she was once again in my arms.
The following afternoon she took me to a cafe on the waterfront. More visitors had arrived in the town during the night, in preparation for the race; they promenaded up and down Mariners’ Walk, inspecting the many colourful bo
ats moored prow to stern at the river’s edge. We were not alone in the cafe; two or three youths in sailors’ attire caught my attention. They were wearing skullcaps with leads attached to persona-cubes before them on the table.
I whispered to Loi, ‘What are they doing?’
She frowned. ‘My guess is that they’re programming the cubes - downloading their personalities into the devices. They will then give the cubes to loved ones and next of kin in case they don’t survive the race.’
‘Does the Church not proscribe such technology?’ I asked.
‘Of course,’ she replied. ‘The persona cubes are illegally imported. Their owners face severe fines, even imprisonment, if discovered.’
I judged that I was sufficiently close to Loi to tell her about my father. ‘Blackman said that I should visit the race museum on St Benedict’s island. Do you know how I might get there?’
‘Well, I do,’ she said, her eyes downcast. ‘The only problem is that the island is the finishing point of the race - it stands three kilometres from the mouth of the Laurent river in the Sapphire sea itself.’
‘So? I don’t see any problem,’
‘Sinclair - the only boats that visit the island at this time of year are those that complete the race. The straits between the mainland and the island are so treacherous . . .’
I sat back and digested the information.
At last I said, ‘Do you know if there’s still a spare place aboard the Swan?’
‘Gastarian was looking for crewmen this morning.’
I hesitated. Then: ‘I think I’d better get myself a blank persona-cube, to leave some record of who I was.’
Loi reached across the table and took my hand. ‘There’s no need for that. You don’t think that if the Swan went down I wouldn’t save you, pluck you from the river just as you saved me?’ She stood and pulled me from my seat. ‘Come, let’s find Gastarian and tell him the good news.’
We strolled along the river bank, admiring the line of ships, each one a-swarm with crew attending to the final preparations before tomorrow’s early start.
‘There it is,’ Loi announced, pointing. ‘The Golden Swan.’
I might have guessed the vessel’s identity, even without the help of the nameplate bolted to its timbers. The ship was the only golden one on the river; thirty metres long, two-decked and three-masted, its figurehead a swan’s proud neck and head.
I saw Blackman and Gastarian standing together on the foredeck. The Shipmaster peered down at us and waved. ‘Climb aboard. Let me show you around.’
We joined them on the higher deck. ‘Good news,’ Loi said. ‘Sinclair wishes to join the crew of the Golden Swan!’
Gastarian turned to Blackman. ‘Is prognostication another of your many talents?’ He turned to me. ‘He told me last night that you would sign on before sunset.’
I smiled at Blackman. ‘However did you know?’ I asked.
‘Let’s say . . . intuition, shall we?’
‘And what,’ Loi put in, ‘does your intuition say about the race?’
‘I see the Golden Swan victorious,’ Blackman forecast. ‘Gastarian the recipient of the Grand Prize, Sinclair and Loi blithely happy . . .’
The Shipmaster cleared his throat. ‘And you, sir? I take it that you will join our crew?’
Blackman assented. ‘I would be honoured to serve as the eyes of the Swan.’
‘This calls for a celebration - but first let us show young Sinclair my ship.’
The tour of inspection was perfunctory enough.
‘Manoeuvrability is the key to our success,’ he said. ‘To dodge the corals we need shifting weights on the lower deck. My crew - yourself included, Sinclair - will provide this weight.’ He indicated a dozen timber constructions, like crucifixes, that projected at angles from the gunwales and overhung the water. ‘In unison, upon my command, you will throw yourself from one to the other of these. I’m using more crew than any other ship, but I hope that our increased weight in that department will be offset by the fact that the Swan is lighter than most of the other vessels. You’ve seen enough? Let’s join the others in the tavern.’
And thus was my crash-course in the mariner’s art concluded.
We found the crew of theGolden Swan in a tavern done out like the cabin of a ship. Gastarian ordered drinks and we sat at a corner table. Blackman left after just one drink - the revelry did not accord with his pensive mood. I sat for the rest of the evening with the tiny Messenger on my lap, drunk less from the alcohol I consumed than from Loi’s presence. We talked and talked, of everything and nothing, of ourselves, our pasts and futures, our hopes and fears . . .
Loi must have been reading my mind. ‘Come,’ she said, dragging me from my chair.
We sprinted down Mariners’ Walk to the Jasmine hotel, ran hand in hand up the wide staircase. I stopped outside the bedroom and stared in shock at the door. ‘What . . .’ I began.
The lock had been forced, the wood of the jamb splintered. The door stood ajar. I pushed it open and stepped into the room, Loi beside me. A few drawers hung open, and the mattress of my bed had been dislodged as if the intruders had expected to find valuables beneath it.
I checked my travelling bag.
‘Did they take anything?’ Loi asked.
‘I don’t think so. Fortunately I had my credit chip with me. Just a minute—’
‘What’s wrong?’
I emptied out my bag, but it was nowhere to be seen.
‘My father’s persona-cube,’ I whispered. I slumped amid my tumbled belongings. ‘But who could possibly have wanted my father’s persona-cube?’
Loi stroked my cheek. ‘Some evil sailor,’ she said, ‘who’d wipe it clean and programme it with his own identity? Oh, Sinclair, I’m so sorry.’
I hardly knew how to react appropriately. The cube had been so much a part of my life that I could not imagine being without it. And yet its loss seemed less important - and in some strange way symbolic - because of the feelings I had for the girl now kneeling before me.
We came together in a fierce embrace and stumbled towards the bed.
* * * *
The hectic events of the following morning allowed me no time to brood over the loss of the cube, or to reflect upon the night spent with Loi.
At first light I was awoken by a knock upon the door. ‘Sinclair,’ Gastarian said. ‘It is the morning of the race.’
The sun was just above the horizon and already Mariners’ Walk was thronged with spectators gathered to watch the ships as they sailed downriver to the starting point. We followed Gastarian and Blackman through the crowds towards the Golden Swan. All along the waterfront sailors were boarding their vessels, and race officials checked to ensure that no crews exceeded eighteen, the maximum allowed. We swarmed aboard the Swan and took our stations.
Gastarian stood tall and proud before the wheel on the upper deck, calling encouragement down to us. Loi sat cross-legged on the lower deck, smiling across at me from time to time. Blackman affixed his spars and rose aloft, his flickering wings lifting him high above the masts of the ship. While four of the crew set the sails, the rest of us buckled ourselves into the harnesses which were roped to wooden eyes in the centre of the deck. The length of the ropes allowed us to reach the timber frames projecting from the gunwales. Once I was secure in my harness, I glanced up and down the river: the other ships were almost under way, their masters shouting their readiness to the officials on the shore. Other Blackmen, though none in sable leathers, patrolled above their boats, together with the Messengers. Sails and spinnakers bloomed as the ships, the Golden Swan among them, cast off and sailed down the river to starting point proper.
As soon as we had set off, a transformation overcame the quiet Gastarian. He shed his reserved persona and took control.
‘Central, boys!’ he called to us over his shoulder. We crouched amidships, grasping purpose-made handholds on the deck. Above us, silhouetted against the cerulean sky, Loi and Blackman flew side
by side.
Soon all thirty ships were proceeding at a leisurely pace downriver, a colourful armada with airborne attendants. I noticed perhaps twenty Messengers, the tiny, faerie creatures flying above each boat which could afford their services. Along every inch of the riverbank crowds waved and cheered; bunting and pennants lined the way. A ridiculous pride swelled within me, replacing for seconds at a time the bowel-wrenching fear at the thought of what I had embarked upon.
We approached the broad Laurent river, its half-kilometre width deceptively calm at this point. One by one we left the tributary behind, sailed onto the Laurent and passed beneath a high arching footbridge. From this bridge hung thirty thick ropes, and as each boat passed under the bridge a member of the crew assigned the task grasped the rope and made it fast to the ship. Our man made no mistake, and tied it securely to a beam of timber traversing the stern. We were tugged to a gentle halt along with the other ships. I looked along the starting line, at the ships waiting to be released, their eager crews, their hovering Messengers and Blackmen.
