The Bird of the River

by Kage Baker

  “They won’t come after us?” Mrs. Riveter said.

  “They shouldn’t,” said Mr. Riveter, but his eyes widened in panic. “We just found the body! We treated it with respect. We took it to the proper authorities. Why would anybody start a vendetta against us?”

  “ ‘When a great house burns, the neighbors lose their huts too,’ ” Mrs. Riveter quoted the proverb. Captain Glass, who had appeared to be dozing on his feet by the mast, gave a mirthless laugh.

  “If there’s any blood debt, they owe us,” he said quietly. “Their dead man killed one of our women.”

  By law they were required to remain at Slate’s Landing until the dead boy’s family came for his body, but the Bird of the River had a job to do; so the town magistrate granted them an exception, and the next day they set sail again.

  “Don’t look down,” advised Salpin. Eliss shook her head and took a firmer grip on the shrouds. She climbed steadily, proud of her steadiness. There was only one dizzying moment as she got past the crosstrees, when she had to let go and reach up through the hole in the mast platform, sliding her elbows above her head. Salpin caught her hands and guided them to the gripping bar, but she pulled herself upward and through without assistance.

  “Well, you’re obviously born to this,” said Salpin, grinning. He was the concertina player among the musicians, a young man, black-bearded and handsome, just the sort around whom Falena would have giggled and nudged Eliss. Eliss was in no hurry for romance and, in any case, didn’t approve of people who smoked pinkweed. She only smiled at him politely and accepted the safety line when he handed it to her. She fastened it on herself.

  “Thank you,” she said. She turned and looked out at the wide view, catching her breath. The whole world was spread out in an immense circle like a compass rose, and the Bird of the River’s mast was the pivot of the compass needle. Ahead of them the river valley stretched out to the east forever; to the north were the marshlands and the distant sea; to the south were forests, rising to the great black mountain where demons were supposed to live. “Oh, it’s beautiful!”

  “It’s a good sign that you think so,” said Salpin, sitting down and stretching out his legs. “Some people come up here just once. They look around, the way you’re doing, and they make a funny little sound and their arms go around the mast, and they can’t let go of it. Last time that happened it took three of us to get him down again.”

  “Him?” Eliss was gleeful. “It was a man?”

  “It was a man. A big ex-soldier. Wasn’t afraid of anything or anybody—and kept telling us so—but he got up here and he turned into a whimpering rag,” said Salpin. “We had to rig up a rope chair and lower him down. He didn’t stay on board long after that.”

  “That’s funny,” said Eliss. She sat at the edge of the platform, leaning on the rail to look down. The sight was heart-stopping, yes, the deck so far below and the people foreshortened and so small. Eliss spotted Alder sitting at the rail with Wolkin, who was gesturing as he talked. Automatically she began making plans for what she would ever do if she fell. I could grab for that rope there—and if I missed it I could still try to throw myself that way and maybe hit those ropes. . . .

  Salpin pushed himself forward to the rail. “Well, let’s begin. You know what to do if you see a buoy?”

  “Shout out. And say what color, and where it is.”

  “That’s right. But you use the Calling Voice. It’s how you make yourself heard without getting hoarse. You sort of push your voice out of here—” Salpin reached for her waist to show her and, when Eliss drew back involuntarily at his touch, put his hands on his own diaphragm. “And you breathe like this. Watch.”

  He took a few deep breaths in a certain way. Eliss watched closely.

  “And now I sound like this, but now—” said Salpin in a normal conversational voice, before booming out:

  “Then cried our noble duke, ‘Who calls

  From Lagin’s bare and broken walls?’ ”

  His voice echoed from the riverbanks. Below on deck, faces turned upward to them. Someone catcalled, “It’s me, noble duke! Your tailor! You still haven’t paid me!”

  “You try, now,” said Salpin.

  “But I don’t know that poem.”

  “You can say anything.”

  “Er . . . Hello! Can you hear me?”

  “That’s good!” Mr. Riveter called up to them. Eliss was pleased.

  “Old Sandgrind used to sing out so loud, they could hear him all up and down the river,” said Salpin.

  “Who was he?”

  “Sandgrind? Sandgrind the fiddler. He had the best Calling Voice in the whole crew. Had the sharpest eyes too. He could spot a buoy from two miles away. He read the river like a book. He could tell you if a single twig lay on the bottom three fathoms down, just from the look of the water.” Salpin shook his head. “But he was a gray old man. One fine morning I climbed up in the windmill tower to ask him what he’d have for breakfast and there he was, stiff in his blankets. We’ve still got his fiddle; nobody could bear to send it through the fire with him. I hope he doesn’t mind.”

  “People sleep in the windmill?” Eliss turned her head to look down at its briskly turning vanes.

  “We do,” said Salpin. “It’s our prerogative. You can’t leave a fiddle or a boxhorn out in the damp, can you? So we need to be indoors. But we don’t rate cabins of our own, so we get the tower. When nobody’s using the mill,” he added.

  Eliss remembered a rainy night she and Alder and Falena had sheltered in a windmill. “How do you get any sleep? Windmills make noise all night long!”

  “Best thing, for a musician,” said Salpin. “The wheel goes around and the rhythm works itself into you. Makes you play better.”

  Eliss shrugged warily. She could never be sure when an adult was saying things to be silly, as opposed to truthfully speaking of something absurd. She looked down at the water.

  “Tell me how to read the river.”

  “All right. See how smooth it is, all across here? The water’s deep. But look ahead, look at that circling, surging patch there. There’s a rock under that water, and if the Bird was just a boat, she’d bash her hull on it. She’s too big to have to worry much about rocks, but you can bet that every freight captain has that place marked on his charts.

  “And, speaking of charts! See that lady up in the bow?”

  Eliss looked down. A sunshade had been pitched there, so she couldn’t see much, but she had noticed the person under it before. The woman sat at a table with drawing pens and ink, and a pair of scrolls open before her, and she studied the river intently and now and then made notes. “Who is she?”

  “That’s Pentra Smith. She’s our cartographer. She maps the changes in the river, and there are changes every trip. Every time we end a transit, she takes the changes in to the Bureau of Maps in Port Ward’b and they publish a new one. And all the freight captains buy them. If they didn’t, they might find themselves stuck on a sandbar or even in the middle of the woods, next trip.”

  “What’s that?” Eliss pointed to a curious pattern she had noticed in the water. It foamed and ran up the way the water did around the snag markers, but there was no buoy in sight.

  “What?” said Salpin, and went pale when he noticed it too. He leaned forward and, in the loudest Calling Voice Eliss had heard so far, shouted: “Snag! Unmarked snag to larboard!” and in a normal voice to Eliss: “Excuse me. Stay there.”

  He scrambled out on the yard as orders were shouted on deck, and all the topmen hurried after him. Eliss had a good view as the sail was caught up and furled. The Bird of the River halted at once; the panorama of valley and trees seemed to march backward a moment, and then the polemen took over and the Bird inched forward once more. Salpin was sweating and breathless when he came back to the masthead.

  “And that’s why we’re not supposed to sit up here in pairs, usually,” he said. “Because if you start chattering away and not noticing things, then we could ha
ve a disaster. But you noticed. Good for you.”

  “I’m good at noticing,” said Eliss. She had spent her whole life watching faces for the signs that meant a shift of mood, the signs of impatience or anger or other things. The river seemed easy by comparison. “Why wasn’t that one marked with a buoy?”

  “It might have just fallen in today,” said Salpin, watching the divers as they went to the rail. “Or maybe the boat captains have been in a hurry and nobody stopped to mark it for us. They’re supposed to, though.”

  The divers went in, with more caution these days than formerly. But nothing was found below, other than the snag itself, which was winched on board and stripped down with methodical speed. Salpin and Eliss watched in silence. Eliss felt a tightening around her heart, thinking of Falena. She looked down and saw Alder sitting alone on the aft deck, face turned resolutely away.

  When the trunk had been stowed away and the sail let out once more, when the Bird of the River crept on her way upstream, Salpin cleared his throat.

  “Let’s go on. See those places there, where the water’s a different color? Those are sandbars. Very important to know where those are. Even the Bird would be in trouble if she grounded on one of those.”

  “Should we call out?”

  “We don’t have to. The captain knows they’re there,” said Salpin. They looked down at him where he stood, a massive figure at the tiller, barely shifting his weight as he steered the barge. “They aren’t like snags, which can fall in anytime and you’ll never know where or when. Besides, he’s got a feel for the water, has Captain Glass. He knows this river.”

  “He doesn’t seem to do much,” said Eliss. “Mr. Riveter gives most of the orders.”

  “Well, Rattleman’s the first mate.” Salpin waved vaguely.

  “Does the captain get drunk a lot?”

  Salpin looked at her obliquely. “Only when we moor at a town. He takes a barrel of wine and he rolls it into his cabin and he locks the door. Usually we don’t see him again until we cast off. He never goes ashore.”

  “Never?”

  “Never that I’ve seen, and I’ve worked the river ten years now.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “There are a lot of stories,” said Salpin, and shivered. “And there I go again, chattering away. Look, look ahead. There’s an island, see? Look at the water and tell me: will we pass her to starboard, or larboard?”

  Eliss decided she liked him, even if he did smoke pinkweed.

  The boy came aboard at Chalkpit Landing.

  Nobody saw him arrive. They were taking on supplies, with a line of men proceeding up the gangplank bearing sacks of dried beans on their backs, and when they had all filed on the boy was standing there, patiently waiting to get Mr. Riveter’s attention. Eliss spotted him as she was keeping the toddlers back from the gangplank. He was small and pale, nondescript, with sleepy-looking eyes.

  “Are you Mr. Riveter?” he asked. His voice was like the rest of him.

  “What?” Mr. Riveter looked around and noticed the boy.

  “I’m Krelan Silvering, Mr. Riveter.”

  “Oh?”

  “You, er, got Captain Crankbrass’s letter about me?”

  “Emon Crankbrass?” Mr. Riveter stepped closer, looking puzzled. “Retired? Used to captain the Turtle?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s right, sir. You got his letter?”

  “No.”

  The boy drooped. “Oh. Oh, and I’ve come all this way . . . and I suppose it went astray somehow. You really never got it?”

  “Well, no.” Mr. Riveter scratched his beard, studying the boy. “What was the letter about?”

  “It was about me, sir. It was a letter of recommendation. My father did him a favor once, and then . . .” Krelan shrugged, with a sheepish look. “My older brother got into some trouble and, er, my father thought it would be a good idea if he didn’t have all his sons under one roof. You see, we live in Mount Flame and—”

  “That’s all right.” Mr. Riveter held up his hands. “If it’s something to do with gangs, then the less I know, the better.”

  “And, er, he wanted to get me out of the way awhile.”

  “Perfectly understandable.”

  “So he asked Captain Crankbrass if he knew any river captains, as opposed to sea captains, because I’m not very strong and he thought a river voyage would be better for my health, you know, and anyway my mother was afraid of my drowning at sea—and Captain Crankbrass said, ‘I know just the place for him; I have a friend on a river barge.’ They never sink, do they?”

  “It’s been known to happen,” said Mr. Riveter, distracted as one of the bearers staggered and almost dropped his burden into the river. “Orepick! What’s the matter with you? Watch where you’re going!”

  “So anyway Captain Crankbrass wrote you a letter and sent it by express runner. Maybe she went to the wrong landing?”

  “It’s always possible,” said Mr. Riveter, grabbing the sack from Orepick and tossing it into the hold himself.

  “On the other hand, if it’s hard for even a runner to find out your exact location at any given time, then this must be a pretty safe place to be, wouldn’t you think?” said the boy hopefully.

  “I suppose so,” said Mr. Riveter. “Look, son, what do you want?”

  “Well, what the letter said was that Captain Crankbrass sent you greetings and asked after your wife and children, and then it said I was a fine upstanding person of a good old pureblooded family, and then it explained a little of the, er, the problem with the—you know—and then it asked whether you couldn’t take me on and give me a job, until people’s tempers cool down a bit or . . . or what ever happens.”

  “Like the Chainfires burn down your house and kill your brother and anyone else who happens to be nearby,” said Captain Glass, swaying slightly as he loomed up behind Krelan. Mr. Riveter gaped in astonishment to see him on deck. The boy turned around hastily and craned his head back to look up at the captain.

  “Well, er, that’s putting it a little baldly, I must say, but—er—yes.”

  “Captain, sir!” Mr. Riveter saluted. “I was just about to explain how I’m only the first mate and all hiring decisions have to be finally approved by the captain. Sir.”

  “Good idea.” The captain exhaled wine fumes. “And were you also going to ask him how likely it was the Chainfires would carry the vendetta all the way to tracking down this kid here and setting fire to the Bird?”

  “Oh, I’m sure that wouldn’t happen, sir,” said Krelan. “I’m a nobody.”

  “Can you live like one?”

  “I think so, sir. I’m the youngest of my family and they always pretty much treated me as one.”

  Captain Glass snorted. “Work out the details, Mr. Riveter,” he said, and staggered back to his cabin.

  “He doesn’t get stupid when he drinks, does he?” said the boy, which surprised Eliss, because she had been thinking exactly the same thing at that moment. She grabbed up Mrs. Nailsmith’s baby, who had been about to stagger out into the path of the bearers, and listened more closely.

  “No, he doesn’t get stupid,” said Mr. Riveter. “Now, look, you’ll have to work. This isn’t like a navy ship with officers and commissions, see? And you’ll have to drop your name, in case anyone should come asking after you. No Silverings on board.”

  “I could call myself Smith,” offered the boy.

  “No. Everybody calls themselves Smith when they’re on the run,” said Mr. Riveter, thinking hard.

  “What about Stone?” said Eliss, dandling the baby, who wanted to get down. They both turned to stare at her.

  “Stone is good,” said Krelan. “Nice and undistinguished without sounding suspicious.”

  “Then you’re Stone,” said Mr. Riveter. “Do you know how to do anything useful?”

  “I can cook, a little,” said Krelan.

  “Right, then! You can report to the steward.” Mr. Riveter made a trumpet of his hands. “Mr. Pitspike! Here�
�s an apprentice for you!”

  The steward, a dour and red-eyed man, had been glaring down through a hatchway, supervising the storing of supplies. He looked up now; his scarlet gaze tracked until it settled on Krelan. He scowled and approached. Krelan smiled shyly.

  “Seven hells, Riveter, what’s that?” demanded Mr. Pitspike.

  “You said you needed help,” said Mr. Riveter.

  “I said I needed another man. That looks as though it’d break in half if you sneezed at it.”

  “I’m not strong, sir, but I’m a hard worker,” volunteered Krelan.

  “Early riser, are you? Because you’ll be getting up in the dark to light all the stoves, so the ladies can come in to cook. And you’ll stir the porridge cauldron. And carry the oil cans. And peel the onions. And turn the spit. And wash the pots!” Pitspike spat out the last word so forcefully Krelan’s limp hair was blown back from his forehead.

  “Yes, sir.” Krelan’s voice trembled slightly. “Where should I put my bag, sir?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “I suppose in my cabin, then, sir?”

  Mr. Riveter turned away hastily, busying himself with getting the gangplank pulled in. Eliss closed her eyes, waiting for the explosion. “Cabin?” cried Mr. Pitspike, mocking Krelan’s enunciation. “This whey-faced little prat thinks he’s entitled to a stateroom, does he? Lah-di-dah, isn’t he just too precious for words? You’ll sleep on the galley floor and like it, your lordship, and anyway the grease is good for the skin. Stow your bag somewhere and get yourself into the galley.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Krelan faintly, saluting as Mr. Pitspike turned and stalked away.

  “Only the captain and the first mate get cabins,” Eliss explained, setting down Mrs. Nailsmith’s baby, who toddled away chewing his fist. “And the cartographer. And the musicians. Sort of. Everybody else puts up tents or lean-tos. But you can put your bag in our tent for now.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” said Krelan. “Er—”

  “Eliss.”

  “Eliss.” He tried to say it with her accent. “A charming name. Short for Elista?”