Arran realized he didn’t know how long he had been holding his breath as he watched her go, and quickly let the air leave his lungs. “Shit.”
Arran’s thoughts over the next three weeks were tediously narrow in scope. There was the boat’s repairs, and there was the passenger, and there was making sure he was safely indoors when the sun started to arc down towards the horizon. Being inside wasn’t protection on its own, but any building that was habitually occupied after sundown was fortified to some degree. Underground cellars were a good start, although not foolproof, and most houses were built low and squat and heavy, extending far down into the dirt to contain bedchambers, parlors, and workshops that kept warm breath and strong heartbeats hidden from view.
There were towns on the plains that were nearly invisible, even in daylight: they appeared to be little more than shallow tussocks of reed grass, the occasional church building rising defiantly above the huddled dwellings, reaching skyward to bring down the dubious blessings and protections of gods who had allowed the Siheldi to roam their earth.
Arran hated the dense, close feeling of sleeping underground. At least when he dozed off in a cabin under the waterline, he could listen to the soothing, rhythmic slapping of the gentle waves and the intoxicating chorus of swinging canvas and creaking rigging, the whole little universe slipping secretly, silently through the starless sky.
But Whitstone’s was land-bound, and so was he until his new ship had legs again. He was regretting his decision to let the wrights put a name on the stupid thing. He had gone to the yard with more than a little boyish anticipation that day, only to see that the word “Tortoise” had been carved in elegant, swooping letters along the bow, painted in rich emerald green and even ornamented with a touch of gold leaf, much to the workers’ raucous amusement as Arran pulled the drop cloth away from the inscription.
It wasn’t absolutely the worst name he had ever heard, but it was close enough to make no difference. If he hadn’t already been burdened with an impossible cargo in the form of his new acquaintance, he might have been more upset. As it was, the ship’s discreditable name was not going to be the most difficult part of attracting a competent crew, and he would need the best help at his disposal to manage it.
Durville almost choked on his drink when Arran told him. “Are you mad? Are you really, honestly mad?”
“Two hundred and fifty pounds,” Arran reminded him, pouring himself another whisky.
“I ain’t sailing with a neneckt.”
“You’ve done it before.”
Durville kicked him in the shin with his wooden foot. “Yeah? And I’ve got this to thank them for.”
“Ow.”
“Serves you right.”
“I need you, Durville. You’re the best and you know it. Thirty percent of the takings, the same as me. And I’ll even let you have the bigger bunk.”
“You should have asked me first.”
“I’m telling you now, aren’t I? Roydin shut me out. I had to do something. And I know you want to get out of this hellhole as much as I do.”
“Thirty five,” the man said after a while.
“Thirty two.”
“And she stays locked up.”
“She offered me a binding word. I think that’s sufficient.”
Durville nodded uncertainly. “Fine. And I get to choose my mates.”
“Be my guest. I don’t got any to recommend to you anyway.”
Durville held out his hand to seal the bargain, and Arran took it gratefully. He was definitely getting the better end of the deal. The man was an expert navigator who ran a taut ship, and was sought after by bigger fish than Arran could ever hope to be. He made a bit too much of a fuss about his missing foot, but that could be tolerated, as long as Arran didn’t have to spend too much time listening to the same old story clumsily embellished for gullible first-timers.
“My boy came out this way over the winter, and he’s still looking for work. I might take him along this time,” Durville said, scratching at his ear. “And I assume you’ll be attending the prisoners’ parade. That should yield a good crop after the hard season we’ve had. A little grease at the drink house should give us the rest. Won’t need too many on a cobbled up raft like you’ve got us.”
“You’ll look after it?”
“Aye. And I’ll keep the presence of our honored guest between you and me.”
“Thank you. You probably won’t regret it.”
Durville shook his head and drained his glass. “Won’t regret it? You always say that, Arran, and somehow I always do.”
CHAPTER TWO
The pleasure of putting the finishing touches to his refurbished vessel on the day he intended to set sail was dampened by the constant, nagging reminder of his commitment to Elargwyd.
He was really just hoping that she wouldn’t show up. It was possible. A small convoy of merchant ships had been spotted in the harbor the previous week, stopping by for a day or two before heading to the capital, and she might have persuaded one of them to take her to her destination instead.
That would be a relief, he thought as he scanned the dock, watching the last of his supplies come aboard with acceptable efficiency. He hadn’t decided whether or not to tell his crew, and he would be happy enough to be relieved of the issue entirely.
No one liked sailing with women – respectable women, at least – but the idea of crossing blue water with something that wasn’t entirely human was even worse.
Neneckt loved the ocean: they were born of it and breathed it like air. Though they made their homes deep under the waves, they could walk among the land-dwellers in perfect disguise, choosing to appear male or female according to their whims, though by nature they were really neither.
They may be practiced at looking human, but they weren’t right, and they could be vicious. They were hard to understand and harder to please, which left most people content to steer well clear of them. That probably necessitated keeping the crew in the dark – but the dark was not a place that any sailor particularly wanted to be.
“Show a leg, there,” Arran shouted when he caught a group of men idling near the waist of the ship with a heap of sacks sitting unsorted beside them. “We don’t have all day, you lazy bastards. If I’d wanted a parcel of slack-jawed ninnies for company, I would have taken your mothers aboard.”
The men scurried back to work, and Arran nodded.
“I hope such rough language is not a common habit for you, Mister Swinn,” Elargwyd said from behind him, and he jumped.
“Yes, it is,” he said, flustered by her unexpected appearance, and she raised an eyebrow. She was wearing a red gown, an unusual color for the early day, and had her lips painted darkly to match. It certainly distracted him from her eyes, but it also made her look uncannily like she had been dining on blood. “I mean – no. Of course not. Just a little encouragement, ma’am, for the newcomers. I had no intention of offending you.”
“Hm,” she said, looking at him as if he was some sort of unfamiliar fish that she was going to gut and eat anyway.
“Can I show you to your bunk, ma’am?” he asked, trying to stop her from staring at him like that.
“Yes. Thank you.”
It wasn’t much of a space, just a corner he had had fitted with a partition for privacy, squeezed up along the narrow, curve under the prow. It smelled a bit like the heads that graced the forecastle above them, where the men sat over holes in the planking, legs swinging above the empty air to do their business, but he had bought some fragrant herbs to smolder in the bottom of the heavy glass oil lamp, and it wasn’t too bad as long as he breathed through his mouth.
“This will do perfectly well,” she said, placing her only bag on the floor. “Where is the mess?”
“The um – you mean you want to eat?”
Elargwyd sighed a little. “Yes. I do occasionally require food.”
“You want to eat with other people?”
“Did you hit your head on the way
down here?” she asked, peering at him closely.
“No, sorry. I just I didn’t know that was something you did.”
She took a step closer to him, which, in the tiny room, meant that she was almost touching him. “I do a lot of the same things you do, Mister Swinn,” she said softly, standing on her toes to look him in the face. She ran a finger along his collar, making him shiver, and caught her nail on the chain hanging around his neck, which made her smile.
“The mess is just down the walkway,” he said quickly, grabbing the chain away from her. “Four bells. But I’d appreciate if you could stay out of the way while we get everything stowed.”
“Of course,” she replied, but before she could add whatever it was she had opened her mouth to say, he had shot backwards through the door and closed it firmly behind him.
“Bloody hell,” he whispered, rubbing his neck as he tried to shake off the feeling of her skin, cool and just slightly clammy. He reached into his shirt and drew out the pendant that hung on the necklace, mostly just to check that it was still there, before tucking it back firmly when he heard Durville shouting for him from on deck.
“You expect me to do everything by myself?” the master grumbled when Arran reappeared.
“Not at all. I think I’ll be staying on deck for quite a while, actually. Forever, if I can manage it.”
“What’s gotten into you?”
“She’s here,” Arran said quietly, trying to convey with his hands the oddness of his encounter with the passenger, but doing little more than flapping about and puzzling Durville further.
“Oh,” he said when Arran eventually leaned over and hissed into his ear. “Well, it can’t be helped. But what do you plan to do about all of this?”
Durville gestured to the quay, where six or seven very serious-looking men in dark blue tunics were standing next to a cart laden with long, flat crates piled high on top of one another. There was also a thin man standing quietly on deck near the bow, holding a folio and watching with a keen eye as the crew went about their work.
“Who are they?” Arran asked Durville.
“Damned if I know. That fellow there said you were expecting him.”
“Can I help you, sir?” he said, approaching the slight-looking clerk, who bowed at the address but didn’t smile. He opened the folio and held it out, offering Arran a quill.
“Sign here, please, Captain.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“For your delivery. Mister Balard asks you to take particular care of his cargo, sir. Someone will meet you when you arrive in Paderborn to receive it.”
“Roydin sent this?” he asked, squinting to get a closer look at the cart on the shore. He couldn’t tell what was packed inside the boxes, which were nearly as tall as a man but only a half-foot thick. But then again, it wasn’t really much of his business as long as he carried them safely. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir. Please sign right here.”
Arran took the folder, but left the clerk holding the pen as he carefully read the terms of the contract. “A thousand pounds?” Arran said out loud, surprised at the unexpectedly generous number. “What’s the catch?” he asked immediately after, scanning the text again.
“Mister Balard simply hopes to provide you enough motivation not to sink this time,” the clerk said primly. “He does not necessarily expect to have to pay you.”
Arran made a face. “Give me that,” he said, holding out his hand for the pen. “There. Have your fellows bring it all aboard.”
The clerk bowed again and left the ship, instructing the men to start unloading the crates.
He wasn’t sure why Roydin had changed his mind after such an emphatic dismissal, but he hoped Elargwyd had nothing to do with it. The mysterious nature of the cargo, which didn’t look like any of the items typically transported across the bay from sleepy Cantrid, made him connect the two occurrences despite the lack of evidence for such an allegation. But he wasn’t about to ask her, partly because he didn’t want to risk making a neneckt angry, but mostly because the idea of being in such close proximity with her again made his stomach turn.
“Can we please get out of here now?” he called to Durville when Roydin’s cargo had disappeared into the hold and the activity on deck had died down sufficiently to make him think that they might be ready to get underway.
Durville nodded and shouted some orders, and the chaos swirled again. An organized chaos, he was happy to see, though there was still a fair number of the crew who were as raw as dug turnips, confused by the bellowing and equally confused by the less-than-gentle nudging of their more experienced comrades. The raid on the debtors’ prison had been a success, at least in filling the ship’s intended complement, but able seamen were hard to find for the rates he was offering, and Arran had only been able to lure a scant few.
They would learn, he sighed to himself, stepping out of the way as one of them lost his grip on the rope he was hauling, flinging himself backward with the effort. They would have to.
“Like this,” he said, pushing the man back into place and showing him how to put his feet to prevent a similar mishap in the future.
Soon he was just as absorbed in the work as any of the men who surrounded him, letting Durville take command as he methodically spread the necessary sails, slowly building way on the vessel as it eased out from its berth.
It was good to be able to trust his sailing master enough to forget his larger responsibilities. It was important to gauge the temperament of his new collection of workers as quickly as he could, and get some sense of the way they would shake into order: who was confident enough to be a watch captain; who had promise but needed a little help; who would be trouble and needed to be supervised. There was no substitute for getting his hands dirty alongside them.
Besides, he wanted to see how the Tortoise would handle. Despite saddling the poor ship with the joke of a name, the shipyard had given him very fine materials. The new ropes, crisp canvas, and beautifully sculpted live oak knees were a joy to behold. But new also meant untested, and there was plenty of work to be done to ensure that she responded correctly to his guidance before they left the protection of the shallow waters close to land.
“I’m very pleased,” he said to Durville when Cantrid’s uninspired skyline had faded into the distance. “A little rough around the edges, and I want to shave a few inches off the fore course yard this evening, but I think we’ll do all right.”
“And our guest?”
Arran shrugged. “You might have to make her welcome at supper, but she did what she was told. Can’t ask fairer than that.”
“You can ask Roydin a thing or two,” Durville said, spitting tobacco juice over the transom, the brown stream disappearing instantly into the churning foam of the wake. “What is he having us carry?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. It’s an odd shape for anything normal. Weaponry, maybe? Some kind of spears?”
“Why don’t you look?” Durville asked.
“Because he’s not paying us a thousand pounds to start snooping around his business.”
“That much? What’s the catch?” the master said instantly.
“That we don’t look,” Arran said firmly. It hadn’t been in the contract, but that didn’t mean he was going to be a fool. He knew how these things worked. Everyone did.
“Fine. I got plenty of things I’d rather be seeing, anyway. Like a proper muster, and some idea of how you’re going to have the messes fixed,” Durville said.
“You really expect me to do work on this trip?”
“We sure didn’t take you on for your looks,” Durville replied, shoving him towards the captain’s cabin, where the records books awaited.
It was his least favorite part of being an owner, but it was a necessary evil. The watches were critically important: a sharp eye and a disciplined response were often the only defense available against the Siheldi, whose piercing calls preceded their attack by mere seconds, giving their target
s precious little time to hide.
Most ships were equipped with lead-lined shelters, stocked with emergency provisions to use should the assault be lengthy. All but the strongest spirits – or those who had fed recently on the unprotected as they scrambled for cover – found it difficult to pierce the thick barrier. It could be done in time, especially if the Siheldi were hungry and determined. There was only one way that a human could be sure of salvation, and it was nearly impossible for an ordinary sailor to come by.
Red iron was the only thing that permanently repelled the demons. The metal, as distinct from common iron as flour was from sawdust, was tightly controlled by the Guild of Miners, who risked their lives to bring the uncommon material to the light, and its rarity made it incredibly expensive, valued far above gold and diamonds.
The houses, carriages, and ships of the nobility were all outfitted with thin sheets of the material sandwiched between the layers of wood, brick, or stone, allowing them to travel in peace and build their dwellings two or three stories high, towering above the rest of the frightened cities. The large troops of personal guards they employed did not fight the Siheldi: they fought burglars armed with shovels and pickaxes who were hoping to winkle out a fragment of the precious mineral to aid their families or increase their wealth.
Due to its scarcity, there was a popular trade in counterfeit items. Small stamped coins and rings made of ordinary metal rubbed with ochre, or cooled, lumpy droplets of smoked bronze, supposedly collected from the waste of the forges, were proffered by shady street merchants during religious festival days. Even though nearly everyone knew they couldn’t be real, hope was much stronger than logic, and there was good gold to be made from such petty thievery.
Arran hated the unscrupulous swindlers that profited from the desperation of the poor, especially because he was, technically, one of them. Despite doing fairly well for himself in his chosen profession, he would never be rich enough to afford even the smallest genuine trinket. But a twist of luck had meant that he had never had to gamble on the honesty of his fellow tradesmen.
Dark the Night Descending (The Paderborn Chronicles Book 1) Page 2
