She said stiffly, ‘I will not be scapegoat. I have sworn this, and I will not break that oath now.’
‘That you don’t want the role is plain,’ Fidel said, gentle, yet probing. ‘But is there a particular reason you are so set against it?’
‘Need I keep repeating?’ Nell snapped. ‘I am not fit for such a task. A true scapegoat has some measure of foresight to serve as warning, but I have none.’ (By not so much as a glance to Dow did she betray the enigma of her nightmare visions.) ‘If I did, would I have led a hundred of my fellow captives to their deaths in the Snout’s hold? Is that what you want for a scapegoat? One so blind that she will usher these two ships and their crews to the same end? No. I will serve as a commander, rightly or wrongly, but not as an agent of fate. Find a scapegoat somewhere else if you need one so terribly. But not me.’
Fidel bowed his head in respect for the deaths of the Heretic Kings, and no one else dared challenge it, for no one else had been with Nell in that terrible hold, with the gas bubbling, and the screams of the dying . . .
But Dow, knowing Nell as he did, understood the deeper truth of it. The disaster in the Snout’s hold haunted her still, no doubt. But her real objection to becoming a scapegoat again was more intimate. Simply, she dreaded being set apart and aside once more from the rest of the crew. What she wanted most was what she had always wanted – to be a sailor and a commander, no more. To voyage where she would, in charge of her own ship.
She had that now, but if she became a scapegoat again, then she would become something other once more – a figure separate from everyone else, whose duties had nothing to do with sailing or command: a mysterious, ill-defined position that Nell herself saw as next to useless. Or if not useless, then beyond her abilities.
But the cold memory came to Dow once more, of Axay in the high chamber of the Sea Lord Ibanez, on board the long since sunk Twelfth Kingdom, and the malediction the strange being had spoken to Nell from behind the black gauze. A true scapegoat you shall become.
So much else that Axay had foretold had come to be, and now these strange fits and visions were assailing Nell. But what was it, anyway, this thing called foresight? From where did such abilities derive? That Axay had possessed the talent, Dow could accept, so uncanny a being was the figure in the wheeled chair. But Axay had been unique, a freak alone in the world. It was harder to associate Nell – his Nell – with such alien powers.
But now was not the time to ponder such mysteries. His officers and crew needed a clear answer. Dow straightened in his chair.
‘Listen. Whatever fate awaits us in the Doldrums, the burden of it will not rest on one person’s shoulders, scapegoat or not. I won’t have one individual held responsible for our luck, or the lack of it, nor one individual offered as a sacrifice for the sake of the rest. That was the Old World’s way. We go in search of a new way, and we all share the weight of that together. Do you hear me, Magliore? Tell those below, we are all scapegoats now.’
The old poet was shaking his head in dissatisfaction. ‘I will tell them if you command me, Dow Amber. But that is not how it works. We can no more all be scapegoat than we can all be captain. You’ll see.’
And so the meeting ended in discord.
*
But they now turned south regardless, as Fidel had advised, and for three days, then six, then nine, they sailed without incident. In fact, they were running along the fringe of a region unpleasantly familiar to those who had travelled on the Snout of old – the Banks. But in setting their course, Fidel was careful to not stray too close to the infamous shallows, so not a single sandbank was glimpsed as the fleet pushed on. There was only empty sea on either hand, and a clear horizon ahead.
The weather grew warmer. Summer had now arrived by the calendar, and besides, each day saw the fleet as many as a hundred miles further south, and a hundred miles closer to the tropics, where no chill ever came. After two weeks of sailing, with the sun rising higher every day, it grew more than merely warm, it became hot, and the crew stowed their cold weather gear away, deep in their sea trunks; it would not be needed again on this side of the world.
But the slow change in the weather aside, there was little else to note. Dow knew that such ease of passage would not last forever, that the trials of the Doldrums would come soon enough, but in the meantime, with the ships functioning smoothly under the eyes of his senior commanders, he was actually somewhat bored. And so, as he had done during similar quiet times throughout the last year, Dow ordered the Maelstrom be readied, so that he could go sailing.
It may well sound strange to a landsman, the notion of launching off in a small boat while already at sea in a larger craft. But in fact sailing was one of Dow’s great joys, and the one true indulgence he allowed himself as captain. Nathaniel’s old boat, hauled up from the ruins of the Stone Port docks, had been restored completely by the carpenters, and re-rigged, and resided now on the main deck in a specially built cradle. Other boats were also kept topside, the ship’s various wooden skiffs and cutters, six craft in all (not to mention the Chloe’s eight precious attack boats, stored below in the modified upper gun deck) but the Maelstrom was for Dow’s pleasure alone.
So now, for four days in a row, as the fleet pressed south without event, Dow had the boat swung out on its davit and lowered to the sea. Climbing in, he would throw off all lines, raise sail, and cut a course slanting away from the ship. And as he went, each of his cares would drop away: his fears about the Doldrums ahead; his awareness of the discontent below decks regarding Nell’s refusal to be scapegoat; his worries about Nell herself, and her nightmares. All of it could be forgotten for a time, left behind in the great hull of the Chloe, while Dow went free and light and leaping across the waves.
He told himself that these excursions were necessary, undertaken for the sake of keeping his hand in at small-boat sailing. But that was a lie, he did it for the fun of it. And what a lithe little craft the Maelstrom was now, liberated from its slower role as a fishing vessel. And how good it was to be alone upon the ocean, just himself and the wind and a single sail to trim.
Deliberately, he would leave the fleet far behind, striking off to the east or west until his two ships were hull down and only white flashes in the distance. He was all too aware, of course, that in the rigging of those ships, many eyes would be watching his little boat anxiously as it sailed further and further away. Fidel and Jake and the others had insisted many times that he not go so far on his own, or that he take another boat as company, or at least someone else as crew in the boat. But Dow always refused such appeals. It would be no kind of escape if he had company, or another boat following.
This rule had only one exception. In the year past, Nell had come with him several times, by his own invitation, so that he could give her lessons in boat handling – after all, he himself had learned to sail in this same craft, long ago on the Claw. But although Nell showed a ready talent for the art, and appeared to enjoy the freedom of the occasions as much as did Dow, she also seemed to recognise that for the most part he needed the Maelstrom to himself, and so she had never forced her presence.
Nevertheless, on the fourth day, Nell asked if she might come along, and Dow happily assented, and so the two of them ranged out from the Chloe, driven by a blustery wind across a sea of white-capped chop. It was not easy sailing, but that only made it all the better, with Nell at the helm and Dow attending to the rigging, both of them absorbed in the task – and anyway, the frequent dashes of spray were refreshing under the hot sun.
After an hour or so, however, the wind eased to nothing, the sea calmed, and taking their cue, they broke out their picnic lunch and sat in the shade of the slack sail to eat. Off to the west, the Chloe and the Snout sat on the horizon, similarly stalled, but otherwise the Maelstrom was alone in the wide world.
They talked little, but as the meal was ending Nell turned her gaze to the distant ships, her eyes narrowed in the sunlight. ‘Would they make it through the Barrier, do you thi
nk?’ she asked. ‘Without us? If we just sailed on, and never went back to them?’
Dow blinked as he chewed on a last bite of bread. Without him or Nell? It was a bizarre thought. The whole enterprise was their idea.
And yet . . .
He said, ‘Now that the thing is started, I don’t suppose it’s vital if any two particular people fall by the wayside. If the fleet is capable of making it through at all, then it’s capable of doing so whether we’re there or not. There are plenty on board who are better sailors than we are. It might matter more indeed if Fidel was lost, rather than us. He’s by far our best navigator.’
She glanced at him wryly. ‘Whereas we are in some ways as much figureheads as active officers.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far.’
‘No, perhaps not. Still, we are examples as much as captains. It was we who inspired the rest to come along. But maybe our part in all this was only to inspire, to get the voyage underway – and now we could just sail on to wherever we want in the Maelstrom and leave the others to it.’
Her tone remained light, but there was the same weariness in her eyes that was so often there now, and an edge to her voice that belied the levity. Oh, she would never seriously consider abandoning the expedition, of that Dow was sure, but nor was she quite the Nell he had known of old, of even a year ago, who had burned with such bright belief and conviction at the prospect of this voyage. The fits and nightmares had robbed her of that.
He pretended not to notice. ‘Maybe,’ he said, matching her lightness, ‘but we’d need to make a few alterations to the Maelstrom first. It’s too small for long voyaging, nor would we last long with no cabin.’
Her wistfulness faded. ‘There’s nowhere to sail to in this half of the world anyway.’ She considered him in grave assessment. ‘But you’re happier, I think, here in this boat than you are anywhere else.’
Dow nodded. There was no disputing it, strange though it was. He had thought, long ago, when he was learning to sail on the Claw under Nathaniel’s dour tutelage, that small boats were all very well, but that it was a ship in which he really wanted to go voyaging. But now that he had a ship of his own, indeed two, his greatest relief was to pilot a small craft again.
Nell sighed. ‘Maybe when we reach the south and everything is settled on a new Isle, there’ll be a chance for us to go sailing properly, for weeks or months at a time, not just for an hour or two.’
‘There’ll be the chance,’ he promised.
‘I wonder. When we do find land, it’ll only be the beginning, you know. Then there’ll be the whole matter of settlement, of building a new country from nothing. Have you thought about that? It’ll be an endless task, a lifelong task, with little time left over.’
Dow hadn’t thought about it, in truth. And it seemed too far away to think about now. The Doldrums must be conquered first, which was challenge enough.
In any case, the canvas above them snapped suddenly in a warm gust. The wind was returning. He brushed a few crumbs aside and glanced to the distant fleet. ‘We should head for home,’ he said, taking up a line. ‘They’ll be getting nervous back there. They hate it enough when I come out here alone – but with both of us out here . . .’
She rose coolly. ‘Yes, that’s the real reason we could never sail away – they’d only come chasing after us.’ A trace of the old fire lit in her eyes. ‘Even so, I’ll say it again – I won’t be their scapegoat.’
For the moment, Dow didn’t argue.
*
Three weeks from setting out, a last landmark of the northern world was sighted on the southeast horizon. It was a low, greenery-draped hump of sand and rock that those from the Snout’s previous voyage had beheld once before, when it had marked the end of their long crossing of the Blue Wilderness: Wayward Reef.
Now it marked a different boundary. To the north of it lay the safe oceans of the middle latitudes, while to the south of it lay the torpid tropics and the outermost reaches of the Barrier Doldrums themselves.
But the fleet did not pause, only held its course. Over a long afternoon the reef drew level than sank away astern until it was no more than a dot – and many were the glances cast back to it. Then it was gone.
Even so, for several days afterwards the ocean remained friendly and blue, the breeze held steady and fair, and they progressed just as they had in the weeks previous. The only sign yet that the Ocean of the Dead was drawing nigh came at night, in the stars, for a familiar and ominous constellation now rose slowly over the southern horizon. A shape of five stars arranged in a cross pattern, one arm longer than the other. The Dagger.
It was, everyone knew, a warning no ship should ever ignore, a last exhortation cried from the firmament – Turn back now, while turn you can, for only slow death awaits beyond. Even with a fair wind in the sails, it defied every sea-going instinct to pay that warning no heed, and to hold course towards that baleful shape in the sky.
But on they pressed.
Only more slowly now. Five days south of Wayward Reef the wind began to splutter and shift, blowing sometimes from the east or west, sometimes from the north, and sometimes even as a headwind from the south. For an hour here or there it would fail altogether, and the heat would settle like a clamp, a precursor of what lay ahead, for the warmth was no longer the humid steaminess of the mid-tropics, but a drier, oven heat now. They were sailing at last into the realms where nicre crowded the ocean thickly and hindered evaporation, so that the air remained desert dry, even above so much water.
And yet even here at times, thunderhead clouds reared in the sky, trailing great shadows across the ocean, and bringing cooler breezes. Once there was a heavy shower of warm rain, and the crews hastened to deploy the water-catching sails, for who knew when, if ever, they would have the chance again to replenish the water casks. But mostly the clouds faded away in hot shimmers, and day by day the winds grew weaker and more erratic.
Each night the Dagger lofted slightly higher above the southern horizon, marking their progress – but strangely it was dimming each night too, for there seemed to be a thin yet permanent haze in the sky this far south. At night the stars and moon were dulled by it, and by day the sun shone with a red cast on a field from which all the blueness was gradually leaching away.
The ocean meanwhile became ever more sluggish, rolling only with old swells from faraway gales, and otherwise smooth and slick. No one could ignore it now: the Doldrums were at hand. And at last there came an evening when the breezes of the day faded altogether, and the sails of both ships went limp, hanging forlornly as darkness descended. A long, airless night followed, close and oppressive, and the wind did not return.
Dawn mustered slowly in the east, red like fire, and broke over an ocean that was muddy green and glassy, the heat fierce even at the first touch of the sun, and the sky turning slowly white as it rose. With the heat, a smell lifted from the water, a stale whiff of rot and age.
From the Chloe’s high deck, Dow looked across to the Snout and saw a ship that might have been painted on some vast canvas, so motionless did it sit upon the sea, its sails suspended like metal, with no longer even any hint of a swell to disturb them. And the Chloe, he knew, must look the same in return.
Fidel – his shirt sweat-plastered and open halfway to the waist, displaying a narrow, grey-haired chest – joined Dow at the rail. For a moment he too gazed at the fixed image of the Snout, then he leaned out and spat in stately manner into the ocean below.
Where the spittle fell, it lay like oil on the surface.
He looked at Dow. ‘Here we are then.’
3. THE CARNIVAL OF THE BECALMED
But this was just the outermost limit of the Doldrums. Though they were stranded for now, Dow gave no thought yet to launching the attack boats and spending their precious whale oil in towing. The winds blew only infrequently here, but they did blow. If the fleet was patient, a breeze would return.
And so the ships floated unmoving all throughout that day and the next,
the sun blazing down, the sails glaring white, the decks almost scorching underfoot. The crews, however, weren’t idle. Now that the fleet had sailed beyond any danger of pursuit or battle, and with so much towing lying ahead – where any dead weight on the ships would only slow their progress – Dow ordered the cannon on both vessels be thrown overboard.
It was a logical decision; nevertheless, it was a mighty wrench to all those who had sailed and fought upon the Chloe and the Snout. To simply throw the guns away, to become as defenceless as any common merchantman – what a fate for a battleship! Indeed, a delegation came to Dow from the Chloe’s crew, begging that he keep at least a few of the cannon on board, so strange and ill-omened did it seem to voyage without any arsenal at all.
The group was led, unsurprisingly, by Magliore, who said, ‘After all, did not a former captain of this ship, Vincente of the Shinbone, likewise strip away the guns on his way to the Ice, and hence found himself helpless when he was later ambushed by his enemies?’
‘Do you think I’ve forgotten?’ Dow replied coldly. ‘I was the one with him when he died. But who is going to attack us, where we are going? What enemy? You’ve heard the debate: the South is empty of all mankind. Some monster from the deep, then? Again, I have met such a leviathan – and cannon shot was of no use against the Great Serpent. So what do we need guns for?’
Magliore and his fellows muttered unhappily, but could provide no answer.
Dow remained stern. ‘You must grasp this. We are warships no longer, and in conflict with no one. And if that’s not enough, think: if eventually we are forced to the oars, do you really want to drag so much iron behind you to no purpose? The decision is made. The cannon will be removed.’
And so it was done. One hundred guns from the Chloe, and forty from the Snout, each one run out through its own port to topple into the sea with a tolling splash. It was murderous work in the heat, the crew grumbling and sweating as they laboured, but in time it was complete, and the two ships rode many dozens of tons lighter in the water than they had before.
The Ocean of the Dead: Ship Kings 4 Page 6
