by Garth Nix
The corpse on the forecastle was an indication that this was merely a theory and that in practice, Captain Fury ruled as she wished. The spitting and handshaking was merely song and dance and moonshadow, but it played well with the pirates, who enjoyed pumping Hereward’s hand till his shoulder hurt. They did not take such liberties with Fitz, but this was no sign they had discerned his true nature, but merely the usual wariness of humans towards esoteric life.
When all the hand-clasping was done, Fury took Hereward’s arm again and led him towards the great cabin in the xebec’s stern. As they strolled along the deck, she called over her shoulder, “Make ready to sail, Jabez. Captain Suresword and I have some matters to discuss.”
Fitz followed at Hereward’s heels. Jabez’s shouts passed over his head, and he had to weave his way past pirates rushing to climb the ratlines or man the capstan that would raise the anchor.
Fury’s great cabin was divided by a thick curtain that separated her sleeping quarters from a larger space that was not quite broad enough to comfortably house both the teak-topped table and the two twelve-pounder guns. Fury had to let go of Hereward to slip through the space between the breech of one gun and the table corner, and he found himself strangely relieved by the cessation of physical proximity. He was no stranger to women, and had dallied with courtesans, soldiers, farm girls, priestesses and even a widowed empress, but there was something about Fury that unsettled him more than any of these past lovers.
Consequently he was even more relieved when she did not lead him through the curtain to her sleeping quarters, but sat at the head of the table and gestured for him to sit on one side. He did so, and Fitz hopped up on to the table.
“Drink!” shouted Fury. She was answered by a grunt from behind a half-door in the fore bulkhead that Hereward had taken for a locker. The door opened a fraction and a scrawny, tattooed, handless arm was thrust out, the stump through the leather loop of a wineskin which was unceremoniously thrown up to the table.
“Go get the meat on the forecastle,” added Fury. She raised the wineskin and daintily directed a jet of a dark, resinous wine into her mouth, licking her lips most carefully when she finished. She passed the skin to Hereward, who took the merest swig. He was watching the horribly mutilated little man who was crawling across the deck. The pirate’s skin was so heavily and completely tattooed that it took a moment to realize he was an albino. He had only his left hand, his right arm ending at the wrist. Both of his legs were gone from the knee, and he scuttled on his stumps like a tricorn beetle.
“M’ steward,” said Fury, as the fellow left. She took another long drink. “Excellent cook.”
Hereward nodded grimly. He had recognized some of the tattoos on the man, which identified him as a member of one of the cannibal societies that infested the decaying city of Coradon, far to the south.
“I’d invite you to take nuncheon with me,” said Fury, with a sly look. “But most folk don’t share my tastes.”
Hereward nodded. He had in fact eaten human flesh, when driven to extremity in the long retreat from Jeminero. It was not something he wished to partake of again, should there be any alternative sustenance.
“We are all but meat and water, in the end,” said Fury. “Saving your presence, puppet.”
“It is a philosophic position that I find unsurprising in one of your past life,” said Fitz. “I, for one, do not think it strange for you to eat dead folk, particularly when there is always a shortage of fresh meat at sea.”
“What do you know of my ‘past life’?” asked Fury, and she smiled just a little, so her sharp eye teeth protruded over her lower lip.
“Only what I observe,” remarked Fitz. “Though the mark is faded, I perceive a Lurquist slave brand in that quarter of the skin above your left breast and below your shoulder. You also have the characteristic scar of a Nagolon manacle on your right wrist. These things indicate you have been a slave at least twice, and so must have freed yourself or been freed, also twice. The Nagolon cook the flesh of their dead rowers to provide for the living, hence your taste—”
“I think that will do,” interrupted Fury. She looked at Hereward. “We all need our little secrets, do we not? But there are others we must share. It is enough for the crew to know no more than the song about the Scholar-Pirates of Sarsköe and the dangers of the waters near their isle. But I would know the whole of it. Tell me more about these Scholar-Pirates and their fabled fortress. Do they still lurk behind the Sea Gate?”
“The Sea Gate has been shut fast these last two hundred years or more,” Hereward said carefully. He had to answer before Fitz did, as the puppet could not always be trusted to sufficiently skirt the truth, even when engaged on a task that required subterfuge and misdirection. “The Scholar-Pirates have not been seen since that time and most likely the fortress is now no more than a dark and silent tomb.”
“If it is not now, we shall make it so,” said Fury. She hesitated for a second, then added, “For the Scholar-Pirates,” and tapped the table thrice with the bare iron ring she wore on the thumb of her left hand. This was an ancient gesture, and told Fitz even more about the captain.
“The song says they were indeed as much scholars as pirates,” said Fury. “I have no desire to seize a mound of dusty parchment or rows of books. Do you know of anything more than legend that confirms their treasure?”
“I have seen inside their fortress,” said Fitz. “Some four hundred years past, before the Sea Gate was . . . permanently raised. There were very few true scholars among them even then, and most had long since made learning secondary to the procurement of riches . . . and riches there were, in plenty.”
“How old are you, puppet?”
Fitz shrugged his little shoulders and did not answer, a forbearance that Hereward was pleased to see. Fury was no common pirate, and anyone who knew Fitz’s age and a little history could put the two together in a way that might require adjustment, and jeopardize Hereward’s current task.
“There will be gold enough for all,” Hereward said hastily. “There are four or five accounts extant from ransomed captives of the Scholar-Pirates, and all mention great stores of treasure. Treasure for the taking.”
“Aye, after some small journey through famously impassable waters and a legendary gate,” said Fury. “As I said, tell me the whole.”
“We will,” said Hereward. “Farolio?”
“If I may spill a little wine, I will sketch out a chart,” said Fitz.
Fury nodded. Hereward poured a puddle of wine on the corner of the table for the puppet, who crouched and dipped his longest finger in it, which was the one next to his thumb, then quickly sketched a rough map of many islands. Though he performed no obvious sorcery, the wet lines were quite sharp and did not dry out as quickly as one might expect.
“The fortress itself is built wholly within a natural vastness inside this isle, in the very heart of the archipelago. The pirates called both island and fortress Cror Holt, though its proper name is Sarsköe, which is also the name of the entire island group.”
Fitz made another quick sketch, an enlarged view of the same island, a roughly circular land that was split from its eastern shore to its centre by a jagged, switch-backed line of five turns.
“The sole entry to the Cror Holt cavern is from the sea, through this gorge which cuts a zigzag way for almost nine miles through the limestone. The gorge terminates at a smooth cliff, but here the pirates bored a tunnel through to their cavern. The entrance to the tunnel is barred by the famed Sea Gate, which measures one hundred and seven feet wide and one hundred and ninety-seven feet high. The sea abuts it at near forty feet at low water and sixty-three at the top of the tide.
“The gorge is narrow, only broad enough for three ships to pass abreast, so it is not possible to directly fire upon the Sea Gate with cannon. However, we have devised a scheme to fire a bomb from the prior stretch of the gorge, over the intervening rock wall and into the top of the gate.
“Once past
the gate, there is a harbour pool capacious enough to host a dozen vessels of a similar size to your Sea-Cat, with three timber wharves built out from a paved quay. The treasure- and store-houses of the Scholar-Pirates are built on an inclined crescent above the quay, along with residences and other buildings of no great note.”
“You are an unusual puppet,” said Fury. She took the wineskin and poured another long stream down her throat. “Go on.”
Fitz nodded, and returned to his first sketch, his finger tracing a winding path between the islands.
“To get to the Cror Holt entry in the first place, we must pick our way through the so-called Secret Channels. There are close to two hundred islands and reefs arrayed around the central isle, and the only passage through is twisty indeed. Adding complication to difficulty, we must pass these channels at night, a night with a clear sky, for we have only the dark rutter to guide us through the channels, and the path contained therein is detailed by star sights and soundings.
“We will also have to contend with most difficult tides. This is particularly so in the final approach to the Sea-Gate, where the shape of the reefs and islands—and I suspect some sorcerous tinkering—funnel two opposing tidewashes into each other. The resultant eagre, or bore as some call it, enters the mouth of the gorge an hour before high water and the backwash returns some fifteen minutes later. The initial wave is taller than your top-masts and very swift, and will destroy any craft caught in the gorge.
“Furthermore, we must also be in the Cror Holt gorge just before the turn of the tide, in order to secure the bomb vessel ready for firing during the slack water. With only one shot, He . . . Martin, that is, will need the most stable platform possible. I have observed the slack water as lasting twenty-three minutes and we must have the bomb vessel ready to fire.
“Accordingly we must enter after the eagre has gone in and come out, anchor and spring the bomb vessel at the top of the tide, fire on the slack and then we will have some eight or nine hours at most to loot and be gone before the eagre returns, and without the Sea Gate to block it, floods the fortress completely and drowns all within.”
Fury looked from the puppet to Hereward, her face impassive. She did not speak for at least a minute. Hereward and Fitz waited silently, listening to the sounds of the crew in deck and rigging above them, the creak of the vessel’s timbers and above all that, the thump of someone chopping something up in the captain’s galley that lay somewhat above them and nearer the waist.
“It is a madcap venture, and my crew would mutiny if they knew what lies ahead,” said Fury finally. “Nor do I trust either of you to have told me the half of it. But . . . I grow tired of the easy pickings on this coast. Perhaps it is time to test my luck again. We will join with the bomb vessel, which is called Strongarm, by nightfall and sail on in convoy. You will both stay aboard the Sea-Cat. How long to gain the outer archipelago, master navigator puppet?”
“Three days with a fair wind,” said Fitz. “If the night then is clear, we shall have two of three moons sufficiently advanced to light our way, but not so much they will mar my star sights. Then it depends upon the wind. If it is even passing fair, we should reach the entrance to the Cror Holt gorge two hours after midnight, as the tide nears its flood.”
“Madness,” said Fury again, but she laughed and slapped Fitz’s sketch, a spray of wine peppering Hereward’s face. “You may leave me now. Jabez will find you quarters.”
Hereward stood and almost bowed, before remembering he was a pirate. He turned the bow into a flamboyant wipe of his wine-stained face and turned away, to follow Fitz, who had jumped down from the table without any attempt at courtesy.
As they left, Fury spoke quietly, but her words carried great force.
“Remember this, Captain Suresword. I eat my enemies—and those that betray my trust I eat alive.”
That parting comment was still echoing in Hereward’s mind four days later, as the Sea-Cat sailed cautiously between two lines of white breakers no more than a mile apart. The surf was barely visible in the moonlight, but all aboard could easily envision the keel-tearing reefs that lay below.
Strongarm wallowed close behind, its ragged wake testament to its inferior sailing properties, much of this due to the fact that it had a huge mortar sitting where it would normally have a foremast. But though it would win no races, Strongarm was a beautiful vessel in Hereward’s eyes, with her massively reinforced decks and beams, chain rigging and, of course, the great iron mortar itself.
Though Fury had not let him stay overlong away from the Sea-Cat, and Fitz had been required to stay on the xebec, Hereward had spent nearly all his daylight hours on the bomb vessel, familiarizing himself with the mortar and training the crew he had been given to serve it. Though he would only have one shot with the special bomb prepared by Mister Fitz, and he would load and aim that himself, Hereward had kept his gunners busy drilling. With a modicum of luck, the special shot would bring the Sea Gate down, but he thought there could well be an eventuality where even commonplace bombs might need to be rained down upon the entrance to Cror Holt.
A touch at Hereward’s arm brought his attention back to Fitz. Both stood on the quarterdeck, next to the helmsman, who was peering nervously ahead. Fury was in her cabin, possibly to show her confidence in her chosen navigator—and in all probability, dining once more on the leftovers of the unfortunate pirate who had taken it on himself to fire the bow-chaser.
“We are making good progress,” said Fitz. He held a peculiar device at his side that combined a small telescope and a tiny, ten-line abacus of screw-thread beads. Hereward had never seen any other navigator use such an instrument, but by taking sights on the moons and the stars and with the mysterious aid of the silver chronometric egg he kept in his waistcoat, Fitz could and did fix their position most accurately. This could then be checked against the directions contained with the salt-stained leather bindings of the dark rutter.
“Come to the taffrail,” whispered Fitz. More loudly, he said, “Keep her steady, helm. I shall give you a new course presently.”
Man and puppet moved to the rail at the stern, to stand near the great lantern that was the essential beacon for the following ship. Hereward leaned on the rail and looked back at the Strongarm again. In the light of the two moons the bomb vessel was a pallid, ghostly ship, the great mortar giving it an odd silhouette.
Fitz, careless of the roll and pitch of the ship, leaped to the rail. Gripping Hereward’s arm, he leaned over and looked intently at the stern below.
“Stern windows shut—we shall not be overheard,” whispered Fitz.
“What is it you wish to say?” asked Hereward.
“Elements of our plan may need re-appraisal,” said Fitz. “Fury is no easy dupe and once the Sea Gate falls, its nature will be evident. Though she must spare me to navigate our return to open water, I fear she may well attempt to slay you in a fit of pique. I will then be forced into action, which would be unfortunate as we may well need the pirates to carry the day.”
“I trust you would be ‘forced into action’ before she killed me . . . or started eating me alive,” said Hereward.
Fitz did not deign to answer this sally. They both knew Hereward’s safety was of almost paramount concern to the puppet.
“Perchance we should give the captain a morsel of knowledge,” said Fitz. “What do you counsel?”
Hereward looked down at the deck and thought of Fury at her board below, carving off a more literal morsel.
“She is a most uncommon woman, even for a pirate,” he said slowly.
“She is that,” said Fitz. “On many counts. You recall the iron ring, the three-times tap she did on our first meeting below? That is a grounding action against some minor forms of esoteric attack. She used it as a ward against ill-saying, which is the practice of a number of sects. I would think she was a priestess once, or at least a novice, in her youth.”
“Of what god?” asked Hereward. “A listed entity? That might serve us
very ill.”
“Most probably some benign and harmless godlet,” said Fitz. “Else she could not have been wrested from its service to the rowing benches of the Nagolon. But there is something about her that goes against this supposition . . . it would be prudent to confirm which entity she served.”
“If you wish to ask, I have no objection . . .” Hereward began. Then he stopped and looked at the puppet, favouring his long-time comrade with a scowl.
“I have to take many more star sights,” said Fitz. He jumped down from the rail and turned to face the bow. “Not to mention instruct the helmsman on numerous small points of sail. I think it would be in our interest to grant Captain Fury some further knowledge of our destination, and also endeavour to discover which godlet held the indenture of her youth. We have some three or four hours before we will reach the entrance to the gorge.”
“I am not sure—” said Hereward.
“Surely that is time enough for such a conversation,” interrupted Fitz. “Truly, I have never known you so reluctant to seek private discourse with a woman of distinction.”
“A woman who feasts upon human flesh,” protested Hereward as he followed Fitz.
“She merely does not waste foodstuffs,” said Fitz. “I think it commendable. You have yourself partaken of—”
“Yes, yes, I remember!” said Hereward. “Take your star sight! I will go below and speak to Fury.”
The helmsman looked back as Hereward spoke, and he realized he was no longer whispering.
“Captain Fury, I mean. I will speak with you anon, Mister . . . Farolio!”
Captain Fury was seated at her table when Hereward entered, following a cautious knock. But she was not eating and there were no recognizable human portions upon the platter in front of her. It held only a dark glass bottle and a small silver cup, the kind used in birthing rights or baptismal ceremonies. Fury drank from it, flicking her wrist to send the entire contents down her throat in one gulp. Even from a few paces distant, Hereward could smell the sharp odour of strong spirits.
