by Ben Galley
‘Why? Surely wrecking the ship was enough.’
‘Trade wars are vicious. The quietest wars ever to rage on this good earth, I’ll tell you that. The only thing more important on a ship than its cargo is its captain. They know the routes, know the seas, and it takes years to train it all into them. Losing a ship is one thing, but losing the expertise of a captain hurts more than you’d think.’
‘Clever.’
‘Thank you,’ Gavisham said, as though it had been his idea. ‘We were just fresh from a war in Prussia, eager for some simple pickings after working with those land-grabbing underlings of the Bitter Prince. We got paid per ship and captain, and got to keep whatever we found, so the coin was good and guaranteed. Now, it’s hard work to wreck a ship. For most, that is. When you’ve got glow-worm or cardinal blood, it’s a little easier. No big fires. No mirrored lanterns. Just stand on a beach and rush hard. Suffrous had that job. He would find a high place along the cliffs and start flashing away, the brightest white you’ve ever seen. I would stay in the shallows a cove away, or on the rocks, rushing whatever I fancied to get the job done.’
‘One dark morning it was blowing a gale, and we spotted a fat Dutch clipper out in the bay. The sea was savage that day and she was running her sails hard to get closer in to shore. I had to rush some of the bear shade just to stay upright on the rocks. Suffrous was glowing hard, leading the ship closer and closer with every passing moment. It was working perfectly. We had missed the last one as it slipped by in the night, but this one had fallen for it, and she was right on course for the rocks. She was a big bitch, that clipper. With her cargo piled high on the decks and the waves running high up her hull. A perfect catch for our employer—or so I thought.’
‘What was it?’ Calidae asked.
Gavisham chuckled to himself. ‘So there I was, knee-deep in saltwater, half-blind in the pouring rain and half-deaf in the wind. As she comes close, barely a hundred yards from the submerged rocks, a fork of lightning gives me a better look at her. She’s no clipper, I think to myself, she’s a Dutch warship, no less. Iron-hulled. A kruiser out of Zeeland, running guns and powder to the West Indies. Now Suffrous hasn’t realised of course, and there’s no going back now. I start waving my hands for him to stop and take cover, but he can’t see a thing through the rain. Suddenly there’s this huge screech of iron bow plates on rock, and a bang that nearly shook the marrow out my bones. I go flying into the sea and start paddling for my life. Suffrous has realised now, of course, after hearing the noise, and is running across the clifftop by the time I haul myself out of the shallows, soaking wet. We share a look, nothing more, before the whole thing explodes on us. Boom, boom, boom, one magazine after the other. Practically turned the ship inside out. Wood and metal torn as easy as paper. Never seen an explosion so big, nor a column of fire so tall. Lit up the whole county.’
Gavisham gazed into the fire as he recalled the heat and the screaming of metal. He seemed to be done, and Calidae frowned.
‘Well, what happened after that?’
‘Suffice it to say, nobody was very happy with us. The Dutch wanted blood, and the lord was the one who had to give it to them. Prime Lord’s orders.’
‘And you and Suffrous?’
‘Spent a year in a Francian prison, wading through shit and piss. Worked in our favour though. The war was coming to a head. They started to recruit gun-crews from prisons in their desperation. Suffrous and I were put on a Spaniard ship-of-the-line. Found ourselves in the battle of Rafalgar, facing the Empire of Britannia. Of course, we sabotaged it from the inside out, sank the bitch right when they needed her most. Helping to win a battle goes a long way towards earning your pardons, I’ll tell you that.’
Calidae wore a confused look. ‘That was over sixty years ago, if my history is right.’
Gavisham levelled his colourful eyes at her. He knew he had slipped, somewhere along the way. ‘And you’re pretty educated, for a maid,’ he countered.
‘My mother saw fit to teach me all about the Empire, actually. But you can’t be a day over forty. Neither was Suffrous.’
Gavisham tried to put her off the scent with a wink. ‘Look good for my age, don’t I?’
A lamprey, he was a damn lamprey—him and Suffrous both. It was a blasphemy of sorts. Those who rushed did not taste the human shade and vice versa. Each saw it as beneath them, in their own unique way. Her kind, lampreys, deemed it impure to put animal blood into their veins. Rushers saw drinking human blood as a defilement. Never did the two knowingly mix, and yet here was one such defiler, right before her eyes.
‘Yes,’ Calidae said, straining not to dig deeper at the risk of exposing herself. ‘Yes you do.’
Gavisham took his chance to rein in his tongue. ‘Time to catch some sleep, before we wag our tongues into the morning.’
For a second night in less than a week, Calidae rolled over onto her side and stared out at the night, pondering what it all meant. Suffrous. Arrid. Merion. They all clamoured for her attention as she drifted off into a fitful sleep.
*
Gavisham awoke early and stiff. The rain had left behind a cold morning, and the fire had withered not long after his eyelids had closed. He clutched his long coat around him and shivered as he blinked the sleep from his eyes. After donning his bowler hat, he sat up and looked out on the world. The sun was just teetering on the edge of the horizon. Up high, between the rocks, he could see the very first fingers of dawn reaching across the sky, now rid of clouds. It was gearing up to be a fine scorcher of a day. Just as well they didn’t need to go far.
Gavisham looked over at the girl, Asha, as she still insisted on being called. He wondered whether they both knew the truth of it, and were simply keeping up this ruse to be polite. But the girl had shown no signs of cracking. He doubted she was aware that he knew. And that was why he’d keep playing along—until the situation changed. And any situation is like a wild beast, changeable, unpredictable, no matter how hard you train it.
If the truth were to be told, he doubted himself, just a fraction, even though he had already put it in a wiregram to Dizali in the last town. She was either a good little actress or … Well, she was indeed who she said she was.
Asha had turned over in the night, and now faced the black pothole that was the remnants of the fire. Her eyes were clamped shut, and she breathed heavily. Gavisham’s eyes scrutinised her blonde hair, where it tangled around her neck, and glanced down at her hands, wrapped around her. There. Subtle pale bands around her fingers, shadows where rings once sat, already being eroded by the sunshine. Plenty of rings too, judging by their number and frequency. Maids don’t wear that many rings. Only little ladies do.
After trying, and failing to strangle a yawn, Gavisham got to his feet and moved his head from side to side. His neck gave two resounding cracks, and he sighed contentedly. He stepped out into the morning, and stood in the deep shadows of the canyon walls. Red sandstone streaked with white limestone, worn smooth by the dusty wind and whatever river had packed its bags and dried up long ago. Gavisham ran his hands over it. He rubbed his fingers together to feel the grit, still wet from the rain.
With the girl asleep, it was the perfect time to perform the necessary morning rituals. After quite a long time spent relieving himself against a rock, he wandered on until he found a knobbly tree branch clinging to life between the whorls of stone. First the right arm, then the left, he slid the coat from his back and hung it carefully on a spur of tree bark that was as dry and as tough as brick.
Gavisham blew on his cold hands and rubbed them vigorously together until he could feel the heat in his palms. Then, with great attentiveness and utmost care, he began to check his vials. His fingers wandered over them like spider’s legs, checking each stopper and cork, tugging at each tie and seam to make sure it was secure. From left to right, he worked, even flicking the odd vial here and there to test for cracks or leaks. Once he was satisfied, he gently lifted the coat off the tree. After a final tug o
f the collar and a shrug, he was done. Ready to rush at a moment’s notice.
Asha was now awake. She sat upright and sleep-eyed, and her voice had a shiver and a rattle when she spoke. ‘How far to Orling?’ Straight to the point as always.
Gavisham sniffed the air, gazing down the meandering canyon. ‘Half a day’s walk, if we strike out soon.’
Asha nodded. A pause, and then: ‘There any food?’
‘No, we ate the last of it last night,’ he told her, crouching down to poke at the fire with an unburnt stick.
‘Hmph,’ was the only reply he got. After rubbing her eyes vigorously, gingerly scratching at a new patch of skin on her forehead, and yawning more than once, she got to her feet and wandered out into the canyon.
Gavisham called after her. ‘Where are you going?’
‘Never you mind!’ she hollered back.
‘Oh,’ Gavisham muttered at himself. Every morning …
She was back momentarily, her face like thunder. ‘What’s wrong now?’ he sighed.
‘There’s a snake.’
Gavisham got to his feet and twirled the hunting knife. ‘Whereabouts?’ he asked, with a intrigued smirk.
Asha pointed back the way she had come. ‘Over there. I think it’s an adder,’ she said, wriggling with disgust. ‘Almost bit me.’
‘Don’t get adders out here, Miss Maid,’ Gavisham tutted, wandering through the canyon. ‘Probably an ironhead, or a … Aha!’ he exclaimed, spotting the snake, coiled up by a rock. ‘A rattlesnake. Listen to it.’
Asha dared to creep a little closer, curling her lip in revulsion. Gavisham hovered just out of its reach. He had heard how these slithering bastards could jump, and he was not about to put his journey to an abrupt and premature end. He held his knife with the blade down, ready to stab.
‘You going to kill it?’ Asha asked.
Gavisham turned around to wink. ‘You wanted some food, didn’t you?’
The girl went pale. ‘That?’ she whined.
Gavisham just chuckled. ‘Good meat on a snake,’ he said. He also wanted to get his hands on some whisperskin blood too, but that was another matter.
‘That’s abhorrent.’
‘Big word for a maid,’ he muttered.
Asha snorted irritably. Somebody had woken up on the wrong side of the dust. ‘Lady Serped used to use it all the time,’ she asserted.
‘Good for her,’ Gavisham replied, barely more than a whisper. The snake was rattling something fierce now. It was an olive-coloured thing, with dark brown blotches all the way down its back, right to its vibrating tail. The snake bared its curved fangs at him. It began to slither forward, head reared up and ready to strike.
‘Why don’t you use your magick on it? Rush or something,’ Asha hissed.
Gavisham did not take his eyes off the snake for a second. ‘That’d just take the fun out of it.’
In a blink, both the snake and Gavisham moved to strike. The snake lunged forward, turning sideways as it flew through the air, aiming for a leg or a juicy thigh, or something entirely more precious. Gavisham shifted right, pivoting on his left foot and sliding the other behind him. Down came the knife, both hands driving it. As the snake sank its fangs into nothing but empty air, the blade fell like a fork of lightning, catching it in the air and driving it to the sand. There was a crunch as the sharp blade punctured its skull and hit the sand underneath.
‘Phew!’ Gavisham blew a sigh of relief, then sniggered quietly as he wrenched the knife free.
‘You’re clearly impressed with yourself,’ Asha muttered.
‘Why wouldn’t I be? Didn’t you see that?’ he retorted smugly. He lifted the snake up by its bloody neck and waggled it like a trophy.
Asha gave him a cold look. ‘I’m not eating that,’ she told him.
‘Then there’ll be more for me,’ Gavisham replied with a grin, before brushing past her and heading back to the cave to kick up a fire.
Half an hour later, a dozen fillets of lean, white snake meat were sizzling in the pan. Asha looked at them as if they were colonies of mould. Gavisham could not help but laugh at her. She scowled at him, crossing and uncrossing her arms. Like a spoilt brat. Like a Serped. It was the first time she had truly slipped, and he was enjoying it immensely. Stamping out doubt will always lighten a mood. He knew now he had been right.
‘Well, I’ll try and eat all of them, but I might have to walk a little slower. Probably get to Orling at around nightfall, I suppose.’
‘So?’
‘Just a long day of walking, that’s all.’
‘I can handle it.’
‘Could do it in half, if you eat a little. Stop your stomach rumbling too.’
Asha turned her scowl on her stomach. ‘I’ll be fine.’
Shrugging his shoulders, Gavisham went back to the pan. The fillets were doing nicely, and so he left them be and turned back to the bowl of blood he had collected when gutting the rattler. He reached inside his pack and found an ornate wooden case, no bigger than the spread of his hand, and flat. It was expertly carved, engraved with the Scarlet Star, with all of the bloodglyphs spread around it. Asha piped up, as he had expected she might.
‘What’s that?’
‘Mine, is what it is.’
Asha huffed and watched him quietly as he popped the latch and opened it. The inside was velvet lined, with small compartments holding spare, empty vials and a compact syringe, made of engraved copper and glass.
Gavisham withdrew the syringe and one of the four vials. Holding the vial in his left hand and the syringe in the other, he began to siphon the blood into the vial with the syringe. It was a slow and careful process, but Gavisham did not spill a drop.
‘What does that do?’ Asha asked when the vial was corked and slotted inside his coat.
‘Turns you into a whisperskin. You rattle just like the snake, and it turns your bite sour and poisonous,’ he replied.
‘Sounds delightful,’ Asha replied.
‘Welcome to the weird and wonderful world of bloodrushing,’ he snorted, before turning back to the pan once more.
The fillets were now done, nice and crispy on the bottom. Luckily, there had been a scraping of butter left in his bag. His stomach chorused with Asha’s as he dished them up into two bowls.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ hissed the girl.
‘Suit yourself,’ Gavisham replied, though he pushed the plate around the fire before tucking in, digging at the meat with a fork.
It was delicious. Strangely sour, but soft like fish. Gavisham smacked his lips. ‘Compliments to the chef.’
Asha wrinkled her lip. ‘You’re disgusting.’
‘Starve then, see if I care,’ he coldly replied. He focused on his task of demolishing the plate of snake meat, wolfing the hot butteriness down, and taking big gulps of water from his flask.
He was on his last fillet when she broke. He had seen it coming; the increased fidgeting, the sneaky glances at the plate, the licking of the lips, thinking Gavisham was too busy to notice. He did not miss a thing.
With an angry sigh, she reached out and snatched up the bowl. She shut her eyes as she picked up the meat in her fingers and stuffed it into her mouth. Forcing herself to chew then swallow, she sat with a thousand-yard stare, as if she were stuck on the decision of whether to keep eating or to vomit. It turned out to be the former, and she wiped the grease from her lips. ‘It’s like fish.’
Saluting with his fork and grinning like a fool, Gavisham wallowed in his victory, taking a sip of water and savouring it as if it were red brandy. ‘I knew it. Watch out for bones by the way.’
‘It’s survival, nothing more.’
Gavisham had a twinkle in his blue eye. ‘We’re ten miles from Orling. We’ll be there in three hours.’
Asha fumed. ‘You tricked me,’ she hissed, before chomping down more of the snake. ‘You bastard.’
All mirth had left his face now. He spoke plainly. ‘You can’t walk on an empty stomach and I
can’t be bothered to carry you. Not in this summer heat. I’d leave you for the vultures.’
‘How kind of you,’ Asha muttered.
‘Just eat your snake and pipe down,’ Gavisham replied.
*
Orling was a quiet town, deathly still, even in the noonday sun. Gavisham and Asha walked the streets in silence, staring at the dusty, dark windows of the saloons and general stores. Nothing was inviting. Everything looked tired and forgotten, like a beggar in the backstreets. A few sheriffsmen were standing about on decks and corners, rifles cradled in their crossed arms, their narrowed eyes regarding the newcomers warily. Barely a handful of horses stood at the troughs and tie-posts along the main street. They were skinny, their ribs proud against their skin. Like the town, they looked tired and forgotten. Wanted posters sat skewed on walls, a variety of grizzled faces sketched upon them.
Gavisham found himself wondering what recent tragedy had befallen the town, for it to be so silent and still. ‘Where is everybody?’ he asked aloud.
‘Slaughter, maybe?’ the girl answered him.
He shook his head. ‘Straight to the horrific, girl, as always,’
Asha shot him a look. ‘Why would the sheriffsmen look so suspicious then?’
‘War, perhaps. Conscription?’ he suggested. Asha did not answer, and they wandered on, looking for the postal office.
It turned out that the postal office was actually part of Orling’s huge railroad station. Four tracks splayed across the dust, with a sheltered platform paired up to each. The postal office was at the back, near the main building. Gavisham counted them lucky. There were no crowds to push through, no congestion to battle, but it was still another tiresome walk in the hot noonday sun.
Before he pushed through the swinging doors, he paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead and point to a bench to the side of the door. ‘Wait there,’ he instructed the girl.
Asha frowned. ‘I’m not a dog, Gavisham. You can’t just say “sit” or “stay”. Ask me properly.’
He gave her his darkest look. ‘Tell me you’re not going to be a bitch for the rest of the journey. I’ll have to find something to gag you with.’ The darkness was thrown right back at him, and he growled. ‘Fine. Please, may you wait out here whilst I collect my wiregram?’
