The deck of the wreck angled from the waters. One of the rowers reached for the damp railing and guided the rowboat in. They tied off, startling a crowd of crows, who hopped further down the ship and resumed pecking at a blackened arm tangled in a wrist-thick rope.
Dante crawled past the crewmen, grabbed onto the railing, and eased onto the slant of the deck, boots slipping on the slick wood. He braced himself and gave Blays a hand up. A few feet to their right where the deck met the water, a pair of legs lay on dry wood. The man's upper body swayed in the water, shirt billowing around his bruised and pale skin.
Dante crouched down, breathing through his nose. "This does not look so good."
"That's because it's a wreck," Blays said. "Anyway, it doesn't matter if they're all dead. The important thing was coming here to check."
"Well, look at you. I'm surprised you could coax that high horse into the middle of a river."
"Sorry to interrupt all the beatings, threats, and killings to help someone for a change."
Downed sails and charred, shattered wood blanketed the deck. Reddish-brown ovals stained the canvas. Blays curled a rope around his forearm and used it to brace himself as he half-climbed, half-walked up the deck toward the stern, where an open hatch gaped into darkness. He leaned over its edge, wrinkling his nose.
"If smells can kill, I hope you're ready with my eulogy." He unwrapped the rope from his arm and slid it down the canted deck to Dante.
"I'd be honored. You are an overweight nun with a drinking problem, right?" Dante coiled the rope around his arm and scrabbled up the creaking planks. At the hatch, the stink of fresh death churned his gut. Water lapped gently in the darkness. Still clinging to the rope, Dante rolled onto his back, rooted through his pack, and emerged with a dull, semi-opaque marble. He rubbed the torchstone between his palms, periodically blowing on it as if it were a colicky fire, until a strong, pale light bloomed from the stone. Dante leaned over the hatch rim and lowered the stone into the gloom. Ropes, broken casks, and shards of pottery scattered the planks some 15 feet below. Bodies lay propped against pillars or crushed between barrels. His nose already acclimating to the scents of decay and exposed guts, Dante smelled old smoke, coppery blood, and the sharp, irritating tang of oil. From the darkness beyond the stone's reach, something stirred the broken jars.
Dante jolted back from the hatch, scrabbling to catch himself on its edge before he slid down the deck. "There's something down there."
"A cargo hold has cargo? This is a discovery right up there with fire."
"Something alive."
"Oh." Blays gazed down at the opening as if suddenly regretting the entire venture, then grabbed the rope, scooted toward the deck railing, and started knotting. "This river just has fish in it, right? Nothing with tentacles?"
"I feel like a large, tentacled object will pretty much go wherever it pleases."
"Why do I always forget to bring a trident?" Blays tested his knot with a tug, then slung the rope's free end down the hatch. It struck the bottom with a damp thud. He gestured down the pit. "Well, you've got the light."
Dante frowned at the gloom. "I could just hand it to you."
"Too much work. Get climbing."
Dante scowled, clamped the stone between his teeth, and grabbed hold of the rope. For all he'd seen and done—the fights, the battles, the deaths—he was still afraid of the dark. Not in a rational way, either. He was less scared of whatever was really down there than of all the things that couldn't be: the venemous monsters, the clawed horrors, the spider-faced giants that would lurch from the darkness the moment he turned his back. But this wasn't a fear he could voice to Blays, so he lowered himself hand over hand into the damp chill gloom.
As the rope swung with his weight, Dante glanced frantically from corner to corner, splashing the hold with the stone's white light. It rushed over shattered wood, burst barrels, bubbly green glass. His boots touched the floor. He shuffled through the debris towards a chest-high crate that was gouged but intact, then hunkered down and pressed his back against it.
"I'm down," he called.
Feet dangled through the hatch. Blays leapt straight down, the rope threaded through his elbows, slowing him just enough to stave off injury when he thumped to the planks. The boat groaned, grinding on the rocks, broken glass jangling in the darkness.
Blays threw his arms out for balance as the ship settled into a new angle of rest. "Possibly not a great idea."
"Not unless you're trying to drown. In which case please ask me first." Dante glanced up the sloping boat. At the gray limits of the torchstone's reach, a man lay facedown beneath a mass of loose barrel staves and hoops. Other than Blays' disturbance of the rubble, Dante hadn't heard anything since descending besides the smack of waves against the hull. He crept across the floor and knelt beside the body. The man's wrist was cold as the river. Dante turned downslope. Beside him, Blays eased through the ruins, pointing at a pair of legs jutting from a mound of broken crates and spilled white cloth. Dante stepped through the tacky, rusty stain around the body and crouched beside one foot. Tugging up its pant leg, the shin was white and cold.
There was no need to check the third man for warmth or pulse. He slumped against the curved inner wall, head missing from the nose up. Dante moved past, smelling cold, stagnant water. The torchstone's white light glimmered on the black pool that was the back half of the sunken boat. Broken boards and whole barrels floated there, circling in an unseen current. He suddenly felt very cold.
"Okay," Blays said. "I've seen enough."
Dante stared into the black water. He thought he could see something moving there, a serpentine, twilight shape that could only be seen in glimpses from the corner of his eye.
A voice moaned from the darkness.
Dante nearly dropped the stone. Blays yelped. "Remind me never to do anything good again."
They found her curled tight under a shroud of sodden, dirty cloth. Dark-haired, a few years older—mid-20s. Her bare arms were as ropy as the rigging, but her cheeks were sunken, her skin as pale as the sails swaying in the current. A bloody bandage held her left leg together.
"Go get help," Dante said. "I'll see what I can do."
Blays' footsteps faded up the slope. Dante drew his knife across the back of his hand. The nether reacted at once, restless in this borderland between air and water, light and dark, life and death. He took hold of the woman's wrist, which pulsed heat like a stove. Shadows flowed down his arms, sinking into her skin like rain into sand. She coughed so hard her shoulders lifted from the deck. He turned her head sideways to let her dribble phlegm onto the damp wood.
He breathed slowly, drawing the nether from the black pool, from the shadows under casks and crates, from the bodies of the dead. The heat of her skin ebbed. He checked the wound on her leg. It was red as a rose, inflamed and oozing blood. A white shard of bone projected from her skin. For now, he left it, along with her pain, fighting her fever instead, her soul-deep chills, the things that threatened to devour the final remnants of whatever spirit still clung to her bones.
She hadn't awoken by the time the crewmen from the Boomer arrived. Nor even when they built a stretcher, strapped her to it, and lifted her into the waning daylight of the topdeck. The rowboat shepherded Dante and the woman back to the Boomer, then turned around to pick up Blays and the other hands who'd helped with the rescue. Dante settled her into a cabin on the aftercastle and summoned the ship's barber, who set her leg and cleansed the wound.
That, at last, was enough to wake her. Dante called the shadows to soothe her pain. She collapsed into the sheets, sweating and unconscious.
Back on the open deck, Blays puffed his cheeks with a sigh. "Think she'll live?"
"Yes, in the sense that she hasn't died while we're talking. Past that, I give her even odds." Dante glanced at Captain Varlen, who stood with arms folded. "We should question her next time she wakes up. She might be able to point us in the right direction."
Varlen sq
uinted his small black eyes against the sunset. "Need to get away from the wreck. Night's coming."
"Meaning?" Dante said.
"Meaning dead sailors become unruly jealous of those who aren't."
Dante was too tired to argue. The Boomer weighed anchor, steering for the river's middle. He sat watch over the woman but quickly nodded off. An hour later, heavy knocking jolted him from his seat. Orlen shoved open the door before Dante crossed the tiny cabin.
"What's going on here?" the chieftain demanded.
Dante moved to block the massive man's entry. "Since when was I allowed to speak to you?"
"Since you ordered we stop. Are we currently standing hip-deep in dead pirates? That is when we stop."
"That woman is near death. Unless you'd like to beat her there, lower your gods damned voice and get out of this room."
Orlen's scarred cheek twitched. He backed from the cabin, lowering his shaggy head to clear the doorframe. Dante followed him outdoors. The clouds had cleared and stars reflected from the waters.
"I should know by morning whether she'll wake up," Dante said. "If she does, she may know where the Ransom's gone."
"Away. And we need to follow."
"What if we pass right by in the night? Or worse, they run into us?"
The norren shook his head. "Josun Joh has spoken to me. The Ransom is more than a hundred miles downriver."
"Forgive me for preferring to get the facts from an actual witness."
"Josun Joh is both actual and a witness. Every day we dawdle takes our cousins of the Clan of the Green Lake another day away." Orlen closed his eyes and nodded. "We sail on."
"We're not going anywhere. I'm the one who paid the captain."
Orlen gave him a tight smile and started up the aftercastle stairs. Dante returned to the cabin. A few moments later, shouts rang up from above, followed by the angry thumps of a 350-pound norren descending the stairs.
The woman woke before Dante did, rasping for water. He returned with a full mug. She gulped it down without stopping, then fell back among the bedclothes, gasping. "Who are you?"
"My name's Dante. What happened to your ship?"
Her sunken eyes dwindled further in their sockets. "We were attacked. A war-galley."
"The Bloody Knuckles?"
"They wore red sashes over their hands. I thought it was strange. Bad for one's grip."
He smiled. "You're a fighter?"
She gazed down at her leg, where fresh bandages wrapped her compound fracture. "I doubt that title can still be applied."
"We don't know that yet." Dante retrieved his small knife belt and placed it against the back of his left hand. She stared. He cleared his throat. "This will look weird, but I promise you—"
"You're a sorcerer. A netherman."
He cocked his head. "Would you like to see?"
She nodded. He leaned forward and neatly sliced the bandage from her leg. After a long breath, he cut a fresh line next to the scab on his hand, calling out to the nether. Her thigh was warm to the touch. He shut his mind to everything but the cold flow of shadows and the heat of her broken leg. Tendrils of nether disappeared beneath her skin, prodding, exploring. She hissed through her teeth. Linked to her leg, he could feel its raw edges, its jagged breaks, the mewling pulse of snarled flesh. As gently as he knew how, he guided the torn-up pieces to match the unbroken whole of her other leg.
She arched back into the blankets, sweat popping across her skin. Beneath the red mess of her wound, bone met and hardened together like an icicle that's reached the bottom of the sill. Before the last of Dante's strength gave out, he pulled her punctured flesh together, meat and veins knitting into a thick pink scar.
He dropped, catching himself on his palms. The room smelled like blood and raw beef. For a while, there was no sound but their breathing and the rock of the waves against the boat.
"Don't you dare try to walk on it," he said eventually. "Unless you want me to break the other one."
"What just happened?"
"The resumption of your sword-slinging career. You can thank me by explaining who attacked you, what they wanted, and where they went when they were done."
Her name was Lira Condors. She was, to Dante's mild surprise, a mercenary, hired by the former Notus for guard duty. The attack, to the best of her knowledge, had come three days ago. The galley appeared in the night without warning, ramming their stern below the waterline and backbeating its oars to disengage. The Notus' captain tried to take them into shore, but arrows rained down on the decks; as sailors jumped overboard, arrows slashed into the black water around them. Lira had gone belowdecks with a handful of survivors, where she hoped to make her stand and wade in pirates' blood, but the ship had been rammed again, and she was struck by a falling crate. She woke to smoke roiling down the hatches. Her leg was broken, the ship was sinking, and everyone else was dead.
Unable to climb or even stand, Lira clawed her way through the rubble to the water pooling at the back of the hold, where she wetted down sheets and used them to mask her mouth against the smoke swirling down from above. For hours, she slept fitfully atop a crate, waking when fire and flooding plunged the ship's bow into the rocky river bottom. The flames went out. Below the hatch, she tried piling up crates into a makeshift staircase, but she was far too tired; she tried tying a thin rope to a knife and hooking it over the edge, but it never lodged deeply enough to hold her weight. Instead, she curled up in the cotton sheets in the dark and the cold, where she resolved to die.
"You saved my life," she finished. "That makes it yours."
"Excellent. I could use another life or two."
A vein stood out from her pale brow. "I'm not kidding. I literally owe you my life. I'm pledging it to you in repayment."
Dante frowned. "Let's not go pledging anything while we're still too dizzy to recite the alphabet."
"Are you saying my life isn't worth having?
"You don't know the first thing about why we're here. We could be sailing off to slaughter every baby in Gask. How would your life look then? Pretty baby-killery, I'd wager."
"What are you doing here?"
He looked away. "Hunting down those pirates. Probably to kill them all."
She laughed, a throaty thing that transitioned quickly to a cough. "I'm not going anywhere. And not just because my leg would rebel and declare its independence from my body."
Dante set all this aside and pushed on to whether Lira had an estimate for the Bloody Knuckles' numbers (roughly forty armsmen, but certainly additional oarmen, too, though they were quite possibly slaves); whether the Ransom had any distinguishing characteristics (unusually large for a riverboat, with a figurehead composed of two massive horns or tusks); and whether her ship had any warning at all as it approached (no—it was as if the night had disgorged it whole). With that, he nodded, patting her unhurt leg.
"Thank you. This could be a tremendous help."
"Do you really mean to destroy them?"
Dante smiled. "You should see what we have downstairs."
Blays waited outside the cabin, peering through the doorway as Dante exited. "She's awake?"
"And overflowing with useful intelligence about the Bloody Knuckles." He gazed about the crisp cold morning, searching for the captain. "I think they carry a sorcerer with them."
"Oh? Did she relate stories about a perversely morbid youth with a handsome, dashing friend?"
"The Ransom sounds sneakier than the Mallish pox. Maybe it's got an expert crew—and maybe they have someone who can make a whole ship disappear."
After relaying Lira's info, it required little work to convince Varlen to double the night watch. Even so, Dante napped through the day, rising at the red clouds and shadowy cliffs of dusk to sit in the prow. He asked Blays to join his nightwatch; with no discussion whatsoever, Mourn joined them, too, providing blankets and black tea to buttress them against the cold night winds, acts which bought Dante's favor well enough not to tell the norren he was completel
y unnecessary. Not that the whole business was anything but a hunch—but the river was wide enough and the Boomer's crew knowledgeable enough of it to sail all night, cleaving to the river's middle, sails stricken, propelled by the current.
Dante stared every time a fire gleamed in the darkness, imagining lamps hanging from the prows of enemy galleys slinking through the night. But they turned out to be nothing but campfires, of course, travelers along the road that paralleled the river, or the lanterns of the villages spotting the banks every few miles. The river tricked him, too: the wash of the waves was as regular as the stroke of oars, and for long stretches he strained his ears against the darkness, peering for glimpses of the ship that must be bearing down upon them, its shining ram plowing a foamy furrow through the waves.
"Tell me more about Josun Joh," he said to Mourn one night, as much to break himself from these paranoid visions of midnight fleets as to better understand the norren's relationship to their god. "Does he speak to everyone?"
Mourn glanced up from his papers; he was working on a treatise that the movement of the heavens were fueled by a regular input of sorrow, which was why the gods had created man in the first place. "No."
"Then who does he speak to? Orlen? Vee?"
'Mostly. Not exclusively." He blew on the ink shining on his parchment. "He speaks to travelers sometimes. Scouts. He's sympathetic to anyone alone and away from home, you see."
"When he speaks, is it just to the one person? Or can he be heard by anyone standing nearby?"
"Only the recipient. Why?"
"I'm trying to figure out whether anyone can vouch for what's claimed to be said."
The Great Rift Page 7
