With a heavy heart Fenn hitched his rucksack on his shoulder and crawled up through the hatch, gratefully taking a deep lungful of air. The storm was on top of them; dark green waves rose up and closed around the Panimengro, and the charcoal-coloured sky splintered with lightning shaped like upside down trees in dazzling electric blues. Fenn staggered to the rail, clinging on for dear life. Magpie was waiting for him. She looked drawn and pale.
On the horizon were seven vast, strange structures looming out of the foaming spray of sea and surf. They were huge red boxes, hundreds of feet high and each stuck on four concrete supports that were splayed like stools narrowing near the top. The way their struts spread out made them look alive; like they were walking through the surf. Three of the boxes had lights coming from within, shining through the small uniform windows on every side, but the others looked desolate and uninhabited, with black holes where windows had once been. One of the boxes had been stripped bare of its outer casing of iron sheeting, leaving a skeleton of girders and pipes. All the structures were inter-linked by metal gangways and rope ladders, apart from one that stuck on its own. At the base of each strut, dozens of decaying boats and barges were moored and other vessels had been moored to these, and to those in turn, so that they spread out in web-like radials.
“What are they?” Fenn shouted over the wind to Magpie.
“The Shanties,” she said. “Old sea forts, from before the last Rising.” She pointed to the middle structures, “They kept the guns in those ones.”
“What were they for?”
“I don’t know. People allus fightin’.”
“Who lives there?” Fenn asked.
“Seaborns without papers or Landborns who can’t get legit. Anyone the wrong side of the Terra Firma ends up here … and a lot of orphans.” She gave him a pitying look.
It was approaching night so fires had been lit across the Shanties and they were now close enough to see a few of the inhabitants huddled under tarpaulins and sheets of rusting corrugated iron, smoke billowing through chimneys of old piping and concrete sewage funnels. Between the gangways, interlacing the huts, was a mishmash of ropes and nets. The way the nets looped and swayed reminded Fenn of the old raggedy spiders’ webs that draped between the rafters of the pigsties back at home.
“Why are we stopping here?” Fenn asked. Halflin had said he could trust Viktor, but Fenn didn’t like the way Viktor couldn’t meet his eye.
“There was a Terra Firma patrol boat back there,” Viktor replied. “It’s too dangerous with you aboard. Sorry.”
Fenn looked at Magpie for more explanation, but she blinked back tears, unable to look at him directly or reply. The rest of the crew cast a glance his way but carried on working. Fenn faltered as he tried to grasp what was happening; they were dumping him. Dumping him on the Shanties. Viktor handed Fenn his sea-permit.
“If … when … another boat comes? Get on it!”
“But I’m s’posed to be going to West Isle!” Fenn yelled.
“Get on it; wherever it’s going,” Viktor repeated.
As the Panimengro steered down through a cut of water that led into the heart of the Shanties, people caught the sound of the motor and were crowding against the ropes that looped around the edge of the jetties, getting ready to jump aboard. Many of them were teenagers, kids not much older than Fenn, but with hollow cheeks and sharp features.
“Look lively and get your positions,” Viktor commanded.
Seeing the crew arm themselves with pike poles, most of the kids climbed back over the rails. Sargassons had a reputation for being tough. You had to be to survive the marshes.
Magpie and one of the crew got the end of the gangplank ready, but they couldn’t moor; it was too dangerous. Viktor pushed Fenn towards the bow of the boat and shouted at the crowd to keep back.
The rest of the crew gripped their pike poles harder and stood facing outwards. As the ship bumped against the ancient rubber tyres strung along the makeshift quay, a young woman, heavily pregnant, clambered clumsily over the rope and teetered on the edge of the jetty. She was beautiful, with a rope of white-blonde hair falling over her shoulders. She held out an angelic-looking boy, who looked pinched and malnourished.
“Take him!” she begged, holding the child aloft, his skinny legs dangling like sticks. The child was weeping and weakly clawing to stay with his mother. “I’ve got a permit!” she shouted. When they didn’t respond, she took something shiny from her pocket and tossed it over the water. “Please!” she wailed, as a heavy gold bracelet clanged and skittered across the deck.
“Anyone boards, tip ’em,” Viktor shouted over his shoulder.
“Please!” the woman shrieked again, throwing something else. A scatter of gemstones fell like a hailstone shower.
“Tip them!” Viktor repeated to the crew, loud enough so everyone heard. The woman wailed in despair, then spat at them. She heaved herself back over the rail, put her hand in her pocket and pulled out more jewellery; once she must have been rich, but wealth didn’t guarantee safety in this world. She started hurling pieces at the crew, pelting their heads. Silver chains, bangles and brooches rained down on them.
“Take it!” She was screaming hysterically now. “It’s no use to me!”
Suddenly a line was thrown onto the deck and a grappling hook splintered the wood. On the other end a bullish-looking man with shoulders like the stumps of tree trunks was pulling the line tight and a rake-thin boy got ready to shimmy over. The bosun quickly kicked the hook out of the wood and the line slithered back over the deck. The man began to swing the iron hook once more, like a lasso over his head. Seeing this, Viktor quickly yanked one of the distress-flares from its hook on the side of the pilot house and climbed up on the rail to fire it into the air. A plume of smoky flame shot up and the crowd instantly shrank back.
“You’re gonna have to jump,” Viktor shouted at Fenn. “It’s too dangerous to lay the plank.”
“I can’t!” Fenn wailed, eyeing the distance between the ship and the jetty. If he missed he’d be killed for sure; sucked under by one of the vicious currents swirling around the legs of the forts or crushed between the Panimengro and the edge of the jetty.
“Jump or be pushed. Your choice,” warned Viktor.
Reluctantly Fenn stepped up onto the rail and swung one leg over. As he did, Magpie pressed a package into his hand.
“Ain’t much,” she said, “but it’ll keep you goin’ a day or so.”
Fenn stuffed it in his rucksack, took a deep breath and swung the other leg over. He was now on the wrong side of the rail, gripping on for dear life. It was a jump of only a few feet, but easy to misjudge. Some of the crowd jeered, encouraging him to fall in, telling him to get on with it.
“Now!” Viktor shouted, eyeing the crowd nervously. Fenn took a deep breath and stared down. The water was roiling into a muddy-white whirlpool as the Panimengro bumped back and forth. He sensed Viktor move out of the corner of his eye. Fenn refused to be pushed, he hurled himself with all his might off the ship’s side.
He landed face down on the jetty. He just managed to push himself up onto his elbows and wipe the grit out of his eyes before he saw the Panimengro roaring into reverse, heading back to the open sea. Over the engine and the shouts of the desperate crowd now jostling around him, Fenn caught Viktor yelling one final, frantic warning: “Clank yourself, kid! Hide, and don’t come out till dawn!”
8
The Shanties had a bad smell, a bad feeling, a bad everything. The barges and boats that had originally anchored at the forts had once been grand mansions of the sea, but now they were crushed by the weight of incoming vessels, and had snapped and splintered inwards, making them no more than derelict hovels. Some had been condemned with yellow Sunkmarks and Fenn guessed they must have escaped before they reached a Punchlock. Nailed up on the boats’ sides were enamel signs with the black and red Terra Firma logo, under which were the words, “Resistance is Treason”. Every sign had been vandaliz
ed, either scratched out completely or splattered with oil and clumps of tar.
Between the boats and barges were alleyways made from scrap metal, chewed-up car panels, tin drums, upended dinghies and plastic buoys. Anything that floated had been packed in to act as a bridge across the water. Walkways of broken pallets and wood ripped from the sides of boats had been nailed over it all to make the flooring. Above them, swathes of plastic or sail cloth were fixed to keep off the worst of the sea spray and were interspersed with sheets of rusty corrugated iron, as fragile as autumn leaves. Layers of muck from seagulls splattered every surface and made the sheeting sag, sometimes into dangerously bell-like globes that threatened to burst on the head of anyone walking below. People dodged around these the same way as people on land dodge around ladders.
Fenn hesitated, unsure of which way to go. He glanced back at the Panimengro but it was already far out at sea. As he walked down the jetty he realised that the crowd had bulked out with curious spectators and everyone was staring angrily at him.
Fenn tried to ignore them, but keeping a watchful eye, pushed through the rag-tag gathering. They obviously didn’t want incomers but there was no one who looked like they’d have enough energy to harm him; they were desperate, pitiful souls. In the dusk, illuminated only by the light from the braziers, they looked like sea ghosts as they shuffled to see him better. Some of them were old timers who must have been on the Shanties since the beginning. Their clothes were tattered and threadbare, but weighted by salt from sea spray, which made the folds so rigid they rustled and shed white dust each time they moved. Their skin was also covered in a fine film of salt crystals, and their hair hung around their drawn faces in stiff, crusty locks.
“We ain’t got room for more!” someone suddenly shouted.
“What d’yer want here?” yelled someone else.
Remembering Viktor’s words, Fenn glanced up at the sky; it was a murky brown. The storm made it seem later than it was, but all the same he knew he wouldn’t have long before night fell. A rickety wooden gangway sloped sharply upwards to the next platform and he headed straight for it, but it was too late. Some of the crowd were clumping in front of him, barring his way. They plucked at his clothes, and stroked his hair like he was an exotic specimen. Suddenly a man, sensing a newbie, pushed through them. He was wearing a filthy dark blue suit made from satin, and a rough sackcloth apron with what looked like a pattern of red roses all over it. His nose, a net of crimson veins, was flattened to one side, so one nostril was completely squashed inwards, and he kept flicking it open and sniffing. He grinned merrily at Fenn, showing a set of black teeth, bowed theatrically and grabbed Fenn’s hand with both of his, which were calloused and caked in blood.
“Waggit!” he said shaking Fenn’s hand vigorously. He slung his arm around Fenn’s neck then, without warning, pulled down Fenn’s bottom lip and pinched his front teeth, holding them tightly, between a grubby thumb and forefinger.
“Look!” Waggit spluttered, pointing out Fenn’s straight white teeth to the crowd. “Look at the teeth on it! Ever see such a nice white set?”
Fenn tried to pull away but dozens of people were craning in to see.
“They are nice,” a woman said, giving her neighbour a jab with her elbow.
“Too spick and span!” the other woman replied suspiciously. “Teeth like that? You Landborn?” she asked.
“Or a Terra spy!” shouted a man. An angry murmur rippled through the crowd.
But before Fenn could defend himself, a young boy – Waggit’s apprentice – popped up right beside him, standing on tiptoes to gawp into his mouth.
“Now see these?” the old man said to the boy, going into lecture mode. “Worth a pretty penny they are. Get Old Pincher, could yer?” The child dug his hand deep into Waggit’s capacious pocket and pulled out a long-handled pair of bloodied pliers.
“I’m presumin’ you wanna sell?” Waggit enquired cheerily. Fenn jerked away from him in horror and shoved him off. Waggit looked mortally offended.
“No need ter be like that!” he exclaimed, before his face broke into a smile. “Oh, I see! You’re alarmified by mine!” he said, tapping his own decaying teeth. “Don’t be; I never wear the wares.” He laughed. “I swap your nice young’uns … fer a bit of bread, an’ I make you a lil wood set. They’ll do you just as good fer a coup’ler years. While yer still growin’.”
At this his young apprentice proudly opened up his jacket, revealing row on row of differently sized sets of teeth graded according to value, starting with polished wood and leading up to porcelain and silver sets. He strutted around the crowd hawking the wares, then took out a couple of sets, snapping them like a flamenco dancer with castanets to demonstrate the sturdy hinges. Waggit clapped Fenn on the back.
“When you get tooth rot you’ll be comin’ back ter see me anyway!” he said sympathetically. “Might as well get ’em sorted now! Trust me, you won’t find no better jawsmith! Ain’t I right?” He beamed at the audience. They nodded, smiling encouragingly at Fenn, showing their gappy mouths and pushing even closer.
Fenn felt like he was suffocating. With a sudden surge of energy he thrust his way through the sightseers, running towards a gangway that led upwards, away from the milling crowds.
“All right, suit yourself!” laughed Waggit, shouting after him amicably, “You’ll be back when you haven’t eaten for a week!”
Halfway across the gangway an old woman barred Fenn’s way. She reached out to touch him, feeling his clothes to get a sense of where he was, her eyes too swollen to see properly. Sensing youth and speed she clutched him, digging her nails hard into his flesh and bringing her face close to his. Her breath wrapped around him rancidly.
“Need somewhere to stay?” she rasped, her eyes flickering blindly. She reached up and lightly patted his face with the tips of her fingers. “Ah! A young’un; nice an’ ealthy.”
She grinned; her rotten teeth rattling and wobbling in her mouth, barely anchored in her raw gums. On either side of her chin little margins of red showed where blood had trickled from her diseased mouth and dried. She was tugging Fenn towards a derelict drifter, barely afloat, when a younger man pulled her away by the turf of her hair and pushed her to one side. He was thin and his skin was knobbled with red-blue scurvy spots.
“Let him be, you old witch!” he hissed, shoving her aside and looping his wiry arm over Fenn’s shoulders, steering him onwards, away from the crowd. “Watch who you talk to here,” he said. “Blind Sally will fleece you as soon as look at you.” Just then another man, shorter and with a shiny bald head decorated with tattoos of sea snakes, fell into step on Fenn’s other side. For a few moments Fenn was squeezed between them, almost carried along by the pressure of their bodies. Then suddenly both were gone and he was standing alone. Something was different; he felt behind him and realised he didn’t have his rucksack any more.
The men were already several metres ahead of him, melting into the crowd and the night air. Fenn was only just working out that he’d been hustled and was on the brink of shouting for help when the tattooed man shrieked out in pain. He’d dipped his hand in the rucksack to see what haul they’d got and now he dropped it, sucking his bleeding fingers. He swore furiously and kicked the bag across the gangway. Fenn didn’t know what had happened, but he saw his chance, darted forwards and grabbed it back.
He hurtled through the rest of the crowd, using his rucksack as a kind of battering ram, and headed any way that seemed to go upwards. Once he was clear of the jawsmith’s audience the Shanties’ dwellers barely looked at him. He was just another skinny kid on the run from one of the Whippers, the closest thing the Shanties had to any kind of law and order.
He ran quickly, scampering between huge old barges smothered in barnacles and rotting tendrils of seaweed so thick he could barely see through. It was getting dark now and people were returning to their barges or wherever they called home. Now and then voices rang out, weirdly severed from their bodies in the rising n
ight fog. Above him Fenn could hear the soft slapping of bare feet walking along the wet rafters and occasionally a thump, as someone landed on a lower beam. Handcarts squeaked and groaned as they were trundled about, pushed by emaciated people picking up whatever gleanings there were to be had.
Running along the maze of alleys, he suddenly found himself by a huge, vertical girder with bits of rope and netting tied to it. Going upwards seemed safer. Clambering nimbly onto the next level, he found fewer shelters there. Climbing up yet one more level he discovered it was practically uninhabited. Here the Shanties was just a mess of beams and girders.
The storm had abated now, but there was still a sharp wind. Way below, through the tangle of beams beneath him, Fenn could see the dark waves. Twenty feet above his head there was a small steel platform on which he caught the gleam of something bright yellow. High above that was the base of the lightless gun tower Magpie had pointed out from the Panimengro. Fenn looked around, exhausted now, hoping for somewhere to rest. Then his sharp eyes spotted a place just below the steel platform where two girders interconnected. It was a tiny ledge, but well hidden.
After a dangerous and slippery scramble up, he finally squeezed onto the ledge and lay there, slowly regaining his breath. He pulled the top of his rucksack open to find out what had made the thief drop it. Inside, two wide red eyes stared back at him. It was the Not-an-otter, curled into a tight ball, trembling with fear.
Fenn grinned in shocked delight. He would have liked to have stroked it, but the Not-an-otter had bared its teeth and was already scratching frantically at the cloth, trying to burrow away in fear. Fenn gently whistled, just the way he’d done in the hold, and the Not-an-otter stopped and pricked up its ears. The way it looked up at him with its clever, knowing eyes once again made him feel a bit less alone and afraid.
He unwrapped the bundle Magpie had given him and found a couple of pickled sardines covered in paper, a sticky clump of rice pasty and a yellow ball-like thing that smelt clean and tingly when he scratched the shiny, speckled surface with his nail. Maybe it was something to wash with, like the precious cakes of soap Halflin made from pressed lavender heads, wood ash and pig fat. He crumbled a few flakes of sardine into the rucksack and clucked softly to calm the Not-an-otter, then he ate a sardine, a mouthful of rice and a few strands of Halflin’s scurvy grass. He wasn’t sure how often to eat it but he didn’t want to risk getting scurvy and losing his teeth like so many people had here. Then he carefully repacked the food and closed the rucksack. He hated shutting the animal away but the sky was darkening and they needed to find a safer place to sleep. There was nothing for it but to keep climbing as fast as he could.
Fenn Halflin and the Fearzero Page 7
