“Captain?” Kovir said hesitantly, which seemed odd for a Seawatch operative. “There’s something I didn’t tell you before. When I was below earlier, with the rebreather, I thought I saw a man.”
“What?”
Kovir looked around as if to make certain no one was listening and quieted his voice further. “I couldn’t be sure, because I didn’t see him a second time. All I can tell you is that he was in green.”
“Why didn’t you…” Lera began, but she knew the answer. Never mind that now. If he wasn’t imagining things—and she had to assume he wasn’t, to prepare for the worst—there was some sort of person in the Sea of Weeds, controlling it. Perhaps that was why the Sea attacked some ships but allowed others to pass safely through. But who in all hell was the green man, and what could she do to stop him? The shark had been driven off, so Kovir couldn’t send it after him.
Wishing she could just fight him and be done with it, she put one hand on the hilt of her saber and went to the gunwale. On her own ship, she might have tried shouting a challenge to the master of the Sea, but the last thing she needed was to rattle a Dagran crew. If anyone heard Kovir’s tale of a Green Man, he might well be thought of as crazy, but in that case it was all the more important for her to be seen as his sane counterpart.
She put her free hand on the rail and leaned cautiously. Nothing to be seen except the dark coils of weeds less than twenty feet below the rail. They moved as though the Sea was a great cauldron stirred slowly by unseen hands, and they were in the pot to be boiled.
Wait. Lera stiffened, her hand tightening on the saber’s hilt. She shouldn’t have been able to see the weeds at all—it was dark and Nemesis was far too tall a ship. Unless the Sea was rising.
Which meant the ship was sinking.
Jason knew better than to be on the deck, because he was much safer in his cabin, but he felt more claustrophobic than secure. With the engine dead—no, stopped—he heard the jungle beyond the glass and wood and copper of the ship.
He tried to ignore the fact that they were held motionless and surrounded. It would have been different if there was something he could do to help, but he supposed the crew and the Denalaits would soon have the situation under control. Though it was odd how nothing seemed to have happened to the Queen Anne, the other frigate Captain Garser had mentioned.
Was there some fundamental difference between that ship and Nemesis? It couldn’t be the propellers or the engine—that wouldn’t explain why some of the derelicts had been sailing ships.
If it wasn’t the ship, then could it be the crew? Something they hadn’t done, like making an offering to the Sea, an appeasement? Someone in their midst? He just hoped it wasn’t him, because one myth he did remember was of a man who’d sailed away against the will of the gods, only to have the entire ship punished because of him. That man had ended up being thrown overboard, if he recalled correctly, and eaten by a sea monster into the bargain.
Someone else, maybe? He thought of the girl, and wondered if she could have brought that on them in retaliation. No, that was ridiculous. The world had moved beyond such superstitious fears, and she was no more a witch than the other women on board.
He frowned. Was that it? The fact that Nemesis, unlike other ships of the Dagran navy, had women on board?
That seemed tenuous at best, especially since there was nothing to support his theory. He couldn’t think of a reason why the Sea might react that way to women. It was a depth of water filled with hungry weeds, not something sentient which cared what gender its prey was.
The liquid scratchings outside seemed to have grown louder while he’d been thinking. That was odd; surely he hadn’t left the window open. He took the single candle in the cabin and approached, seeing the reflection of the flame in the glass grow larger as he did so, but the window was shut tight.
Then something gleamed as it trickled down the wall.
He knelt and held the candle to eye level. A few delicate white lines worked their way between the planks of wood.
Frowning, Jason leaned closer, bringing the candle with him until the heat was unpleasantly strong against his cheek, though the white filaments seemed to dislike that too. When the flame touched them, they writhed before crisping away.
Roots, sinking into the ship from outside. Jason got to his feet, the flame swaying with the movement. Even giant seaweeds didn’t need to support their own weight, so they had nothing like the thick strong roots of trees, but that kind of rapid growth wasn’t natural. And the roots might be everywhere, a web spun over the ship’s hull. He looked uneasily at the dark window, hoping nothing would burst through the glass.
Best to report it, in case the captain wasn’t aware of it, and that would get him out of the small, enclosed space too. Relieved to be able to do something, he left the cabin.
The moment he was outside, he knew the situation was worse than he had expected. Deckhands rushed along the passageway, carrying weapons. He flattened himself against the wall at an order to make way, and the first officer hurried past him, shirt flapping free of his waistband. Even in a crisis, Jason wouldn’t have expected to see an officer on Nemesis dressed sloppily.
He followed the first officer up, but before he could say anything about the roots, the officer was on the quarterdeck, talking urgently to Garser. A muted smolder of red hair caught Jason’s attention as Lera joined them, and he made himself look elsewhere. Kovir stood beside a funnel, looking as though he wasn’t sure where he wanted to be either, so Jason went over to him.
“Are you all right?” he said. Sweat sheened the boy’s face, as though he was sick. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t been able to use his shark to free the propellers.
“No,” Kovir said. “Why are you topside?”
Jason wondered whether to say anything—perhaps the first officer had already reported the problem to Garser, in which case the captain might appreciate keeping the matter quiet until they figured out a way to remove the roots. Before he could decide, rapid footsteps sounded on the deck and Lera came up to them.
She turned to him without preamble, a furrow carved between her brows. “Are there any myths or rumors you’ve heard about a person living beneath the Sea?”
It was the last thing he had expected her to ask, but she didn’t strike him as the type to lend credence to myths unless she had some evidence for them. Both she and Kovir were the kind of people his father would have called solid, something Jason had spent a good deal of time trying to be.
“What kind of person?” he said.
“Kovir thought he saw some sort of Green Man below the water earlier, and I’ve heard tales of forests having protective spirits—triads, I think they’re called. So maybe the Sea of Weeds has one too.”
Jason had heard tales of finfolk and sirens, but he didn’t think those—if they existed at all—were responsible for what was happening. A memory from long ago stirred, and in his mind’s eye he saw the herd of cattle on the farm where he’d grown up.
“I have an idea,” he said. “Come with me.”
He thought she would refuse, since she hesitated until he was halfway down the ladder. After that, she caught up, climbing swiftly down after him.
“What’s doing this?” Her voice was low but peremptory, and he felt sure that under any other circumstances, she would have caught his sleeve to make him stop and tell her. Good thing she didn’t want to touch him, then, he thought as he made his way to Charlotte Rheme’s cabin.
The door opened to his knock. Unlike his quarters, Charlotte’s were well lighted, but she’d positioned the candles about the room’s periphery as if the light would somehow hold the jungle at bay. Jason went in without waiting for an invitation, and Lera followed him.
“What’s happening?” Charlotte said tensely.
“Lieutenant Deldeon said those weeds are growing up through the gunports and the sluices in the
stern head,” Lera told her, and Jason thought that explained the lieutenant’s disheveled state. “The crew is cutting away whatever they can, but…”
But it was like building a house over a spread of seeds and having them sprout all at once in a single night, growing tall as they engulfed whatever was in their way. “Tell me,” he said to Charlotte. “Is it possible there could be an…entity below the Sea that’s trapped us, and is doing so because it wants mates?”
“Mates?” She repeated the word as if not sure she had heard correctly, and from Lera’s expression, she couldn’t believe he’d dragged her from topside for that.
“Other ships taking this route wouldn’t have women on board, let alone three of them,” he said. “And Kovir saw some kind of Green Man under the Sea when he was scouting. Like the pagan deities people worshipped in the past.”
Understanding dawned in Charlotte’s eyes. “The old gods of the forests and the fields, the ones symbolizing the fertility of the land.”
Jason nodded. Maybe there had been substance to the ancient beliefs that still held sway in certain parts of Dagre. “And fertility would mean taking mates, as many as possible—like a stag or a stallion.”
“Whether that’s so or not,” Lera said, “what can we do about it? Because if there’s a Green Man, Kovir’s not going to send his shark hunting him—it—in the dark. If a shark could even kill something like that.”
“Do the derelicts have anything to do with this?” Charlotte asked.
“It might keep its mates aboard those,” Jason said, thinking aloud. “That’s the only reason I can see for them to be afloat while we’re sinking. But they’re scattered over the total surface area of the Sea, so we couldn’t target them. Besides, destroying them wouldn’t stop the—”
“Wait,” Lera said. “If this Green Man needs to keep his mates above the surface, maybe we could lure him out of the Sea with…what he wants.”
“You mean, with one of us?” Charlotte’s voice changed when she answered.
“I’ll go,” Lera said.
Just like that, two words to say she would leave the ship, striking out on her own to confront whatever threatened them. Not that he was surprised—he’d known from their first meeting that she was fearless—but taking on what might well be a god was more dangerous than defying the Dagran government.
“But what then?” Color rose in Charlotte’s face, and it was clear she didn’t like her moment of hesitation, but also that she had a reason for it. “Our gunports will be below the waterline by the time you leave.”
“I won’t need a cannon.” Lera looked around. “But I want one of those.” She pointed at a rebreather folded neatly on top of a chest.
“Make it two,” Jason heard himself say. “I’ll come with you.”
Lera started to tell him to stay behind, then paused. She couldn’t risk Kovir’s life—especially since he could be just as useful on the ship. Charlotte was obviously afraid, and she’d bet good money Garser wouldn’t spare any of his men.
Not that being the only choice left meant she had to take Jason with her, because the last thing she needed was deadweight. He might be clever enough to figure out a thing or two, but she’d bet good money he couldn’t fight another person, let alone some kind of sea god.
Oh well. If he gets killed it’s his own fault.
“Get the rebreathers ready,” she said. “I’ll speak to Captain Garser.”
She hurried out, climbed the ladder three rungs at a time and shoved her way past anyone who didn’t spring aside for her until she reached the quarterdeck. No point in telling Garser all the details, especially since it was bound to sound crazy, coming from her; she didn’t have Jason’s or Charlotte’s command of big words and scientific ideas.
All she had was the ability to state, straight out, what she was going to do. “I’ll try to draw the Sea’s attention away from you,” she began, and told him what she needed.
Garser listened, and Lera thought the condition of the ship might have something to do with that. All around the deck, his crew hacked at weeds that crawled over the gunwale, up the stays, along the shrouds. Roots sank into anything within reach. For every tendril that was chopped away, a dozen more rose from the water to grasp at Nemesis. The ship was going down by inches.
“All right,” Garser said when she had finished. “Patrick, fetch the powder. Quick, before the gun deck’s flooded.”
“I’ll need a cannonball too,” Lera remembered to say as the first officer saluted and hurried away. She noticed Kovir at her elbow. “And your shark will have to tow the boat, because we’re sure as hell not rowing in those rebreathers.”
Kovir looked as though she had asked him to pull the boat himself, and Garser spoke. “If we unleash the hellfire,” he said, “that might give the Sea enough of an enemy that it doesn’t notice the shark.”
“Thank you,” Kovir said, as politely as always, and Lera sent him off to the other end of the ship while she went back down with four men at her heels. Jason had already put on one of the rebreathers, and she did the same, wincing as loose strands of her hair were caught and yanked in tightening straps. The hood covering her made her feel like a prisoner on the scaffold—or the executioner.
The men who had followed her carried the cast-iron air tanks topside. Lera kept her balance on the deck with an effort she’d never needed when a ship swayed in the grip of the wind. Here there was nothing except thick motionless humidity, but the boards were slick with sap and lopped-off tendrils that still twitched from time to time. The thought of letting those touch her bare skin was disgusting enough without the idea of becoming some sort of plant herself, her blood running green for the rest of an unnatural life. Sooner than that, she’d swallow all the gunpowder on board and eat a flame.
She made her way to the stern, where Patrick Deldeon was waiting. The deckhands had hauled one of the boats over the gunwale, tearing the weeds away from it, and chopped through the thwarts enough to wedge a large iron-banded keg into the bottom of the boat. “We filled that with shrapnel as well as powder,” Patrick said, and when Lera looked at him blankly, he explained. “Pellets, nails, pieces of scrap iron and broken clay. Perhaps twenty seconds after you light the fuse, those will rip through anything nearby.”
Managing a nod, Lera climbed aboard, and Jason joined her after grabbing a lantern. The men hauled on the ropes, lifting the boat off the deck, though she noticed that the ropes were being overgrown as well, covered with a fine coat of sea moss. She doubted the weeds could get past the layers of wood and copper, but they clung to the hull, dragging the ship down inexorably.
Though since Nemesis rode so low in the water, the boat didn’t have far to fall. It landed with a slosh as thick as treacle, and she hoped any plants under it had been pulped. Patrick turned towards the prow, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted, “Ready!”
Iridescent fuel spurted from both sides of the prow. The crews turned the spitfires easily, spraying the Sea while keeping the hellfire as far as possible from Nemesis’s hull. A pallid slick settled over the weeds and someone tossed a torch overboard.
With a whuff, the hellfire ignited. Ice-blue flames shot up and flashed sideways in all directions. For a moment the night seemed as bright as noon.
Then the Sea boiled. Huge though Nemesis was, the warship lurched with reaction. Thick weeds exploded from the waves as though fighting to get clear before they were burned. Pods burst apart in the fierce heat, sizzling and hissing, and a cloud of fetid vapor rolled in from the Sea.
Something’s wrong, Lera thought, but before she could figure out what that was, a fin sliced its way through the Sea, heading for them. She tossed out a rope tied around the boat’s prow, and the shark slewed towards it. Even as weeds began to creep over the sides of the boat, the shark’s tailfin lashed.
The rope went taut as the shark’s teeth closed on it, and t
he boat slid through thick water. Behind them, she heard a soft sound like rotted cloth ripping slowly, and knew it was the weeds tearing away from Nemesis to follow the boat instead. It wasn’t moving fast—the shark might have been swimming through mud—so it was only a matter of time before the Sea closed its fist around her.
She slashed at any weeds which clutched the sides of the boat, but those weeds seemed not just thick but endless. The swift slices turned to chops that made her pant with the effort. Jason caught up an oar and slammed it down on the weeds with heavy spattering blows.
The boat slowed further, the shark’s fin barely visible through the solid mat that spread across the surface. She knew what had happened—plants below had sunk their roots into the sides of the boat, producing enough drag that the shark could no longer tow it. They were perhaps fifty feet away from Nemesis now. The fin disappeared beneath the water.
Sweating beneath the rebreather and her clothes, she caught the lantern as it rocked with the slight swaying of the boat—Unity help them both if that fell on the keg and broke—and she saw what was wrong. What was missing.
“The cannonball,” she said through a dry mouth. “I was going to use that as ballast to take us out of the blast zone, but they forgot to put it in—”
Jason flung the oar at the remaining weeds and pulled his own air tank off his shoulders. He twisted a lever and the top of the tank slid off. When he shoved it below the surface, ignoring the weeds that coiled around his wrists, water gurgled in, filling the tank in moments. He dragged it back up, trailing strands of dark green, and slammed the top back on.
Good enough. For a lying, scheming bastard, he did think fast in a crisis. And he didn’t put his own safety above anyone el—
In a deep bubbling rush, the kelp burst out of the Sea behind them.
It climbed through the air. Half a dozen columns of weed twined together. They came together in what might have been a roughly humanoid shape, easily seven or eight feet tall.
The Highest Tide Page 10
