by Anthony Ryan
“Best hold your nose, now,” he said, voice muffled behind the welder’s mask he wore and, like Skaggerhill, clad head to toe in thick leather. “This is where we find out what the bugger had for dinner.” With that he sank a broad-bladed knife into the lower section of the drake’s belly and sliced deep and long. The resultant stench had Clay gagging even though he sat on a crate a good fifteen feet away. Scrimshine stood back as a steaming collection of guts spilled out onto the deck, then took a moment to poke through it with his steel-shod boots, commenting, “Seems we weren’t the first ship he happened across in recent days.”
He kicked something free from the mound of guts, something pale and round that rolled to a stop at Clay’s feet. The skull had been mostly denuded of flesh but one of the eyes remained. The blank, milky-white orb stared up at him provoking an unpleasant memory; another dislocated head once gifted to him in a bag.
“Have some Seer-damn respect,” Skaggerhill growled at Scrimshine from behind his mask, receiving only a shrug in response.
The sailor turned to rummage through the drake’s abdomen, prising the lips of the cut apart and reaching inside, muttering, “Let’s be having yer bile duct then, y’bastard.”
“Is it him?” Clay asked. “Is it Last Look Jack?”
“King of the Deep’s arse it is,” Scrimshine replied, still rummaging. “This is a tiddler, lad. If old Last Look’d found this tub it’d be him harvesting us.”
Clay watched Skaggerhill apply a hand to the Blue’s hide next to the final incision he had made, squirting a few more drops into his bucket. “Well, that’s about all the easy money we’ll make,” he said, standing back. “Have to render him down to the bone to get full value and we ain’t got the gear for that.”
“Folk at Kraghurst’ll take what’s left,” Scrimshine said, emerging from the body holding a dark object roughly the size and shape of an apple, which he plopped into a large pickle jar. “Even a rotted Blue’s got value.”
“What about the heart?” Clay asked.
Skaggerhill turned to him, moving clear of the pooling blood and pushing his mask back from his face. “What about it?” he asked with a cautious frown.
“Can you get to it?”
“I guess so. Take a while to saw through his ribs though.” The harvester’s gaze narrowed further. “Why d’you ask, young ’un?”
Clay levered himself off the crate and started back to his cabin. “Just curious,” he said.
• • •
That, Lizanne told him, her whirlwinds twisting a little in agitation, is a very bad idea.
Miss Ethelynne told me she drank the stuff twice, he pointed out. And she was fine.
You aren’t her. Heart-blood is a highly unpredictable and barely understood substance. Plasmologists have been attempting to refine it into a usable state for decades, enjoying a singular lack of success. I urge you, Mr. Torcreek, to put such notions aside and concentrate on the task ahead.
As you wish. He hoped his insincerity didn’t show in his mindscape. Although he had become ever more adept in controlling it, he knew he lacked her expertise when it came to fully concealing his thoughts. This time, however, it seemed his growing abilities paid off, for her whirlwinds settled into their usual contained orderliness.
Your position? she asked.
Three days north of the Chokes. Captain’s stopped burning Red on account of the bergs. Must say I ain’t liking the climate much. I knew it’d be cold but this is hard to take.
I’m sure it’ll be harder still when you reach the Shelf. Best keep some Red handy for emergencies.
Surely. Where you at now?
Halfway to Scorazin. He saw her whirlwinds darken again at the prospect ahead and found it unnerving; fear was usually absent from these trances.
Bad place, huh?
The worst in the empire, some say. Prisoners have been known to commit suicide upon being sentenced to life in Scorazin.
Anyone ever escaped?
Her whirlwinds twitched as a faint ripple of amusement ran through them. Not to my knowledge, but I come from a long line of innovators.
You could wait. See what we find beyond the Shelf. Could be, you don’t have to do this.
I have a sense time is very much our enemy, Mr. Torcreek. Her thoughts took on a brisk note, indicating an imminent end to the trance. There may be little opportunity to trance once I gain entry to Scorazin. If you fail to connect with me after a month, assume I’m dead and proceed at your own discretion. And put any notion of drinking heart-blood out of your head.
• • •
He borrowed tools from the engine room and spent over an hour hacking away at the Blue’s sternum with an axe. It had been two days since the trance with Lizanne and he felt an odd sense of pride at having resisted this impulse for so long. But the farther south they sailed, and the deeper the chill in the air, the more the Blue’s heart seemed to call to him.
He grunted and swung the axe once more. The blade sank into the fibrous gash he had made in this slab of bone. It was as thick as an oak door and almost as hard. He gave a satisfied sigh as the sternum finally cracked open, reaching in with his thick-gloved hands to pry the sundered bone apart. Through the pink-grey gore he could see the Blue’s rib-cage had compressed, the arcs of bone pressed together to conceal the prize within. Lifting a saw, he set to work, forcing down his rising gorge at the stink of the drake’s decomposing innards. It required another hour’s work before he cut a decent-sized hole in the wall of ribs, by which time the morning watch were coming on deck.
“What are you about, Mr. Torcreek?”
Clay glanced over his shoulder to see Hilemore standing near by, his blocky features rich in suspicion.
“Claiming my prize, Captain,” Clay replied, tossing some bone fragments into a bucket.
“This animal is the ship’s prize,” Hilemore informed him. “Profit derived from it will be shared among the crew.”
“I doubt they’d want any part of what I’m after.” Clay lifted a lantern and shined the light into the gap he had created, seeing something glisten as it caught the glow. Closer inspection revealed it to be at least as big as his head and secured to the rest of the Blue’s inner workings by a huge vein as thick as his forearm.
“Spare me some Black and this’d go quicker,” he told Hilemore. “Miss Ethelynne once tore a heart right out of a Red’s chest after drinking Black.”
“You’ve had all the product you’re getting, for the time being.”
“Oh well.” Clay reached for the large knife sitting amongst his array of tools. “Guess I’ll have to do it the traditional way.”
He half expected Hilemore to stop him, pull him away from the corpse and maybe even administer another beating. Instead, the captain just stood and watched as he cut the heart free and carefully extracted it from the rib-cage. “Might want to stand back a mite farther,” he told Hilemore, carrying the heart towards a steel bucket. “I’m given to believe just a drop of this stuff on un-Blessed skin can have ruinous results.”
Hilemore stared at him for a moment before taking two slow and deliberate backward steps. “Are you really intending to drink from that?” he asked.
“You intending to stop me?” Clay placed the heart in the bucket then took up the knife once more and made two deep cuts, forming a cross in the organ’s surface that immediately swelled with blood.
“I find myself curiously ambivalent on the matter,” Hilemore replied.
Clay watched as the blood dripped sluggishly from the cuts to form an inch-thick pool around the heart. It was darker and more viscous than the product Skaggerhill had harvested, and a distinct contrast to the paler, diluted substance Clay was used to. How much? he wondered, striving to recall every word Ethelynne had spoken on the subject, which he was depressed to realise amounted to no more than a few words. She had command of Lutharo
n because she drank the blood of his mother, he remembered. So, stands to reason he was right there when she did it. Ain’t no Blues here now.
He reached for the empty spice jar he had purloined from the galley. It was double the size of a standard product vial but still small enough to carry in his pocket. He sank it into the bucket and let it fill to the brim, then fixed the lid in place and washed the excess product away with water from his canteen.
“Finally,” Hilemore said, turning and striding towards the bridge. “A modicum of common sense.”
• • •
The Chokes came into view the next day. At first they appeared as a long jagged saw-blade on the southern horizon but soon resolved into a series of narrow rocky islets, each rising to a height of at least eighty feet and topped with a thick cap of ice. At Scrimshine’s urging, Hilemore had reduced speed to one-third during their approach in order to allow the tidal currents to raise the sea to the required height. “Need at least a two-moon tide to sail the Chokes,” he advised.
Clay kept a close eye on the former inmate as he worked the wheel. He knew his undimmed distrust of the man was most likely the result of Blinds-born prejudice, but it was an instinct he had learned to trust. Blinds don’t wash, he reminded himself, watching Scrimshine expertly spin the wheel to counter a sudden current.
“Gotta keep a watch on the eddies here,” he said, glancing at Hilemore. “Best tell your lookouts that, Skipper. They need to sing out if they see a big swirl ahead.”
Hilemore nodded to Steelfine, who relayed the command to the crow’s nest via the speaking-tube.
“We’re too far east,” Scrimshine went on, squinting through the wheel-house window before tapping a finger to the compass. “Gonna have to tack west for a bit.”
“We followed the heading you gave us,” Hilemore pointed out.
“Chokes’ve never been mapped for a reason, Skipper.” Scrimshine grinned and spun the wheel to starboard. “They change. Sea wears at the rock whilst the ice carves new channels and closes others. It’s almost like they’re a living thing that eats unwary ships.”
They followed the northern edge of the Chokes for another two hours. Clay quickly gained an appreciation for Hilemore’s insistence that they find a pilot before coming here. Through the gaps in the outer chain of islets he could see many more, too many to count easily, forming a close-packed maze several miles thick. He also saw how the chain of islets described a great curve, disappearing into the distance where a thin white line could be seen on the horizon.
“That’s the Shelf, huh?” he asked Hilemore, who gave a short nod, his own gaze fixed on their helmsman, who, Clay noted, now had a sheen of sweat on his cheeks despite the chill.
“Something wrong?” Hilemore asked him.
Scrimshine didn’t answer for a long moment, eyes feverishly tracking over the parade of passing islets. “It’s, um,” he began, swallowed then spoke on, his voice betraying a hoarse nervousness. “It’s gone. The channel I was aiming for. See?” He pointed through a gap between two islets, beyond which a large iceberg could be seen twisting slowly in the current. “Looks like it’s suffered a tumble since last I was here.”
“I told you to throw this one back,” Clay said to Hilemore.
The captain ignored him and took a step towards Scrimshine, looming over him and speaking in precise tones. “You are here for one reason. I have no room for useless hands aboard this ship.”
“There’s maybe another way,” Scrimshine said, voice even hoarser. “Farther west, where the Chokes meet the Shelf. It’s, uh, right treacherous though. Not to be risked lightly.”
Hilemore stared at the perspiring convict for a long moment. “It seems we have little choice,” he said eventually. “I hope for your sake you don’t once again prove my trust to have been misplaced.”
• • •
It took the better part of the remaining daylight to reach the Shelf. Progress was slow due to Scrimshine’s need to compensate for the shifting and powerful currents flowing into the Chokes. As the light began to ebb the Shelf grew from a thin white line into a massive pale green-blue wall that towered over the Superior by at least fifty feet.
“Well, that’s really something,” Skaggerhill said, gazing up at the frozen cliffs with ice beading his bushy eyebrows. The Longrifles had gathered on the fore-deck as the ship drew ever nearer to the frozen edifice. They were all wrapped in a variety of clothing looted from the unneeded belongings of the Superior’s fallen crew, Loriabeth appearing somewhat comical in her voluminous collection of thick coat and seal-fur hat. It all seemed a very long way from the jungles and badlands of Arradsia.
“You were hoping for an interesting journey,” Clay said. He was wearing a heavy coat that had belonged to the Superior’s coxswain, but still his teeth chattered as he spoke.
The harvester turned and nodded to the south. “That seems a damn sight more interesting than I was hoping for.”
Gazing at the passage ahead, Clay couldn’t help but share his trepidation. The channel between the Chokes and the Shelf was barely twice the Superior’s width and the water seethed as the energetic currents battered against the ice. As he watched, a chunk the size of a house detached itself from the Shelf and plummeted into the roiling waters. He had gained a grudging appreciation for Scrimshine’s piloting abilities but found it incredible that any helmsman could successfully steer such a course.
Preacher said something, the first words Clay could recall him uttering since Hadlock, a soft recitation of scripture almost lost to the numbing air. “‘’Ware the safest roads, for they lure the slothful towards the Travail.’”
Clay saw that the marksman had a serene cast to his face, as if he looked upon the coming trials with calm acceptance. He always was crazy, Clay reminded himself, seeing the sharp glance his uncle shot at Preacher and knowing they shared the same thought. Probably should’ve left him in Lossermark.
“Ain’t gonna attempt this tonight are they?” Loriabeth asked, casting a wary eye at the darkening sky.
Clay turned towards the bridge. Through the glass he could see Scrimshine engaged in some animated gesticulation as Hilemore loomed over him once more. “Seems it’s a matter under discussion,” he said, starting back towards the mid-deck.
“It’ll be fully dark within the hour!” he could hear Scrimshine saying as he climbed the ladder to the bridge. The sailor’s voice possessed a curious tone that mixed stern refusal with wheedling solicitation. “You take us in there, this ship’ll be scrap come the morning.”
“It’s a two-moon night,” Hilemore said, his own tone absent any inflection save command. “Bright enough to see by without lights and I’ll not anchor here.”
“We could draw back a mile or two to calmer waters,” Scrimshine said, fighting a catch in his throat. “Steam in a slow circle until midday on the morrow. Should be able to get her through then.”
Clay paused at the entrance to the bridge, watching Scrimshine stare at Hilemore in desperation. Clay clamped down on the urge to add his voice, knowing the captain’s reaction to unasked-for advice, especially from him, was unlikely to be pleasant. After a moment’s consideration, Hilemore shifted his gaze to the Varestian woman standing at the rear of the bridge, arms folded and face rigid as she witnessed the discussion. She met Hilemore’s gaze and gave a short, barely perceptible nod that had Clay wondering if he wasn’t in fact sailing on a ship with two captains.
“Very well,” Hilemore said, moving back from Scrimshine. “Bring us about. Mr. Talmant, signal the Chief to take us to one-fifth speed.”
“One-fifth speed, aye, sir.”
“Mr. Steelfine, double watch tonight. I’ll take the first one.”
“Aye sir . . .”
“BLUE TO STERN!” the shout cut through the Islander’s words, dragging every set of eyes towards the rear of the ship where a lookout stood pointing at somet
hing a good distance off. At first Clay saw what he thought was another collision of waves born of the region’s unpredictable currents. Then he realised it was in fact a wake, a great swell of displaced water that spoke of something far larger than the rotting corpse lying on the aft deck. He could see a spine at least the height of two men rising from the centre of the swell, with a long row of others twisting behind as whatever created the wake made an unhurried progress towards the Superior.
“Oh fuck me to the Travail and back again,” Scrimshine breathed. “It’s him.”
CHAPTER 13
Lizanne
“Hyran,” the young man introduced himself, voice wavering a little and his large eyes averted. She put his age at somewhere around eighteen, though his thin frame and gaunt features made him look younger. Pale skin and dark hair meant his family was of northern origin, though his accented Varsal held a depth of street-born coarseness it was hard to fake. Hyran, Lizanne thought. Another code-name from Corvantine myth. The mystical messenger who walked the dark paths between the divine and mortal worlds. Quite apt, really.
Korian had introduced the lanky youth, nudging him into the secret refuge in the tea-house store-room with an impatient slap to the shoulder. “Haven’t got all day, citizen.”
“You can go,” Lizanne informed Korian in tones that didn’t invite discussion. “Close the entrance.”
Left alone with her the boy squirmed under her scrutiny, though she saw how he resisted the urge to conceal his hands as her gaze tracked over them, finding no marks. “You never sought the Blood Imperial’s Token?” she enquired, referring to the Corvantine equivalent of the Blood-lot.
