ARC: The Corpse-Rat King

by Lee Battersby

  “But… there’s…” Marius shook a hand towards the water at the back of the ship. Bomthe’s lips compressed into a tight little smile.

  “I do not care what problems you are attempting to leave behind you, sirrah, so long as they do not accompany you on your journey. Your concerns are not mine. Now, leave my cabin, please, or shall I call on Mister Spone?”

  Marius glanced at the giant ship’s master. He stared back at Marius, his features a blank mask of fear. Marius sighed, and dropped his head. He turned without a word and left the cabin. He was halfway along the narrow walkway towards his cabin, desperately trying to decide how to reinforce his door with nothing more than blankets and scraps of paper, when two hands appeared at the railing. As Marius pressed up against the wall in shock, Gerd hauled himself over the railing to stand, dripping, before him.

  “Hello, Marius,” he said, a nasty smile spread across his features. “How was your shit?”

  Marius said nothing. Gerd stepped forward. Marius slid a foot along the wall.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Running away? Where to, Marius?” Gerd laughed, a sound like falling gravel. “Haven’t you heard the saying? ‘The entire Earth is the grave of great men’. L’Liva said that. You know, the philosopher? I’ve met him.” Gerd took another step forward. “You can’t run away from me. You can’t escape us.”

  Marius lunged forward, lowering his head and driving it into Gerd’s chest. Gerd stumbled backwards, clawing at the older man’s back. Marius heaved upwards, driving Gerd against the railing, once, and twice. He heaved, and tipped his tormenter over the side. The younger man held on a moment, then his weight betrayed him and he fell away from the hull, tumbling as he fell twenty-odd feet to hit the water. Marius leaned against the railing, watching the rings spread outwards from the impact. How deep was the harbour below the hull line? How deep the Minerva’s draught? No question of asking whether Gerd could have survived the fall. The only concern was how long it would take him to reappear, and whether Marius could continue to block the dead man’s attempts to recapture him long enough for the ship to weigh anchor. He waited, and watched, stepping to the corner of the railing to keep his eye on the stern as well as the side, but Gerd did not resurface. Eventually, as dawn began to lighten the sky, and sailors emerged from below decks to make ready for departure, Marius retreated to his room and sat with his back pressed against the door, hoping his dead weight would be enough.

  Out the window, where he could not see from his position on the floor, a figure hauled itself out of the water to stand on the dock, watching the Minerva as she slipped her moorings and made out of the harbour. Only once the massive ship was well out into the bay did the figure turn, and push through the crowds, away from the wharf.

  Marius sat against the door for three days, afraid to move lest the past come crashing through his door and drag him beneath the surface of the world for judgment. True to his word, Bomthe sent Figgis down the narrow passageway three times a day, to knock on the door and leave a tray of food. Three times a day, Marius ignored the invitation, and the diminutive cabin boy snuck back an hour later to gulp down the rejected meal and report back to his master that all was well with the passenger. At lunch on the fourth day, however, he opened the door at Figgis’ knock, and did his best not laugh at the youngster’s look of disappointment. He tilted his head to Figgis to bring the tray in. Figgis laid the tray upon the thin shelf, and nervously eyed the closed door.

  “Will that be all, sir?” he asked, shuffling his feet. Marius motioned him to sit, then nudged the tray closer.

  “Tuck into that, lad,” he said, leaning back and smiling as Figgis nervously broke off a corner of the hard bread. “I’ve no great appetite, these days, and you look like you don’t get more than scraps for your tea.” He nodded down at the thin stew and broken biscuits. “Get stuck in.”

  Thankfully, Figgis admitted that, indeed, he was the poor, hard-done-to soul he appeared to be, and that it was, indeed, almost impossible to survive on the pittance he was thrown by the captain. Marius clucked in sympathy, and begged him to try some of the stew.

  If you want gossip, talk to the ruling classes. If you want the truth of things, speak to those who serve them, the ones who change the sheets in the morning, who carry the breakfast trays into bedrooms, who water the horses at the roadside inns and never, ever reveal how blue the stool of the monarch is this morning. Within half an hour, Marius and Figgis were firm friends, bound by shared experiences and an understanding of just how cruel a fate it was to serve under a master who swept a spoon through your stew before passing it to you, to remove the best bits of meat for his own plate.

  The deal was ridiculously easy to strike – Marius would give the lad his food, and let him eat in the relative comfort of the tiny cabin, and in return, he would know all there was to know about the Minerva, her crew, and the countless feuds, arguments, love matches and working relationships that made up its society. And on his next visit, Marius would receive a bowl of hot water, a stick of soap, and a blade with which to shave.

  “Tell me,” he said, as Figgis was wiping up the last of his stew with the final ball of bread, “about Mister Spone…”

  FOURTEEN

  No man makes captain without having served his share of dawn watches. The hours between three bells and seven are the loneliest in the world; the coldest; the wettest. It is reserved for those on misdemeanour charges, those whom the mates have come to dislike most, or like Mister Spone, those who have attained the highest working rank on the ship and need only the experience of commanding the worst men at the worst time of the day to complete their education. Such an education gives a master complete knowledge – only at the most miserable hour, with waves crashing across the bow deck and the wind making a mockery of the sails, can a man truly understand the paradise of a dry corner, away from the rain, where he can light a snout and smoke, undisturbed, for a few stray moments before the call of duty and danger requires him to re-enter the whirlpool outside. There were no such conditions that morning, but such a corner serves as well in the dry as the wet. Spone was crammed in, half-turned into the angle, striking a Lucifer against the wood, when Marius appeared out of the dark and stood before him.

  “Mister Spone.” He clung to a beam as the ship pitched and rolled across the pre-dawn swell. Spone, his body perfectly adjusted to life at sea, stared at him and raised his hands into half-fists, unconsciously shielding his exposed side. He waited, saying nothing. Marius gripped tighter as the ship listed, then righted itself. “May I speak with you?”

  Slowly, warily, Spone nodded, his eyes darting to the left and the right, seeking out ways to get around the man before him. When none presented itself he let them fall upon Marius, suppressing a shudder as he did so.

  “You are a religious man, Mister Spone? A Post-Necrotist, I understand?”

  Again, Spone nodded. Marius sighed.

  “In that case, I must apologise for my appearance. It must have startled you.” Marius stared at the man for several seconds. “It must have terrified you,” he said, so softly that Spone could barely hear him above the wind. Marius stepped closer, transferring his grip from one stanchion to another. Spone shrank back as far as the corner would allow.

  “I am not the hallowed dead, come back to wreak havoc upon the world of the living,” Marius said. “I am not dead at all. Give me your hand.” He held out his. Spone stared at it. “Please, Mister Spone. Your hand.” Haltingly, Spone gripped it. Marius pulled it against his chest.

  “Can you feel that, Mister Spone?” he asked. Slowly, Spone nodded, eyes fixed upon Marius’ chest. “My heart, sir, beating, the same as any man’s.” Marius risked releasing the stanchion, reached up, and drew back his hood. Spone winced at the sight of his uncovered face.

  “I know,” Marius said. “It’s awful. Totally ruined my chances with the ladies.” He laughed, and despite his confusion, Spone managed a small one in return. “Truth is, Mister Spone, I have no idea wh
at it is, only that it affects me alone. Those around me are safe, have no fear on that count.” Marius let go Spone’s hand, and gestured ahead of the ship. “I’ve travelled far and wide for a cure, but nobody can tell me what it is, only that my flesh rots and my eyes film over, and as to the smell, well,” he shrugged, a comical, exaggerated movement. “Ruined with the ladies.” He offered his hand once more. “Once more, I can only apologise.”

  This time, Spone shook it.

  “Had I known of your beliefs, I would never have barged in upon you in such a manner,” Marius said. “I hope I did not cause you too much grief.”

  Spone straightened out of his corner, and banished memories of four terror-filled nights awake in his tiny cabin, praying. “Think nothing of it,” he managed to say. Marius dug into his jerkin, and produced a Lucifer to replace the one Spone had dropped. He struck it, and leaned in, cupping it to protect it from the wind. Spone accepted the gift, and lit his snout.

  “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  The two men stood and looked out at the grey sky, watching as the sun peeked hesitantly over the horizon.

  “Tough watch,” Marius said, and Spone nodded in quiet acknowledgment.

  “Makes you captain, in the end.”

  “Is that the plan?”

  “Eventually.”

  Marius nodded. “A good place to learn, then?”

  “I’ve served under worse,” Spone said, and Marius nodded in agreement.

  “I’ve seen worse, for certain. So…” he let the thought hang for a moment, “He’s a fair man, this Captain Bomthe?”

  They stood, side by side, and Spone talked about his captain, and Marius listened, as the sun rose and the new watch arrived to take up their posts. When they parted, with a handshake and a firm wish for a good morning, Marius returned to his cabin, to think upon what he had learned, and to lay some plans for his future.

  He stayed in his cabin for five days, during which time the Minerva made fair progress. The weather was temperate, and fresh winds propelled them across the open ocean with no need to tack or bring the massive mainsails into play. Figgis visited three times a day, bringing bowls of the increasingly thin soup and leaving with the empty vessels and a smear of broth around his cheeks. Marius listened to the gossip-filled reports he delivered, filtering out the important tidbits as they rose to the surface: Captain Bomthe wished to avoid the coast and head straight out into deep waters; Mister Spone was worried about several items of cargo that had come loose in the aft hold; Captain Bomthe and Mister Spone had gone down to the hold personally to secure the cargo; nobody knew what was down there; rumours assigned it to everything from gold bullion, to magical arms to be traded to the Taran heathens, to women set aside solely for the officers’ use; Mister Spone was angry about something, but would discuss it with nobody; Captain Bomthe kept drinking, and sending Figgis out to refill his brandy skein. Marius simply nodded and kept his head against his chest, telling the young lad to eat up.

  At dinner on the fifth day, he interrupted his visitor’s monologue with a short cough, and a raised hand.

  “The aft hold you mentioned.” Figgis looked up from his bowl, a dribble of broth wending its way down his chin. “Could you show me where it is?”

  Figgis looked uncertain. “I’m not allowed down there, Mister Spone says. Nobody is, just him and the captain.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about them.” Marius leaned back on his nest of blankets, and folded his hands across his chest. “You don’t need to take me all the way there. Just far enough so that I can find my own way. If the captain or Mister Spone find me after that, your name will never occur to me.”

  “I… I don’t know.”

  “Does he beat you, this captain of yours?”

  “No… I… well, yes… but only when I deserve it,” Figgis corrected himself quickly. Marius nodded. Shipboard discipline was no mystery to him. It was a hard life, and it took hard men. The cabin boy’s definition of “deserving it”, and by extension the captain’s, might not accord with Marius’ feelings on the subject. But then, Marius was in their world. One of the first things he had learned whilst travelling – learn the rules of your destination, so that they do not surprise you.

  “I give you my word,” he said. “I’ll not ask you to do anything to make you deserve it. Perhaps…” he paused, as if considering his options. “What if you came to me between the third and fourth watches? Would the captain know?”

  Spone would not be on deck until a full watch later, and like all good sailors, would sleep right up until the bell sounded. And Bomthe would have fallen into a drunken stupor long before, if Figgis was even remotely accurate regarding the number of visits he was making to the brandy cask. The young boy frowned for a moment, considering Marius’ proposal. Marius sat still, projecting innocence with every fibre.

  “I suppose…” Figgis said. “Just as far as I want?”

  “Not a step further,” Marius said. “All I want is to see this hold. After all,” he held his arms wide. “What else can I do?”

  “But why?”

  “I’m nobody’s agent, if that’s what’s worrying you.” Marius leaned forward, and teased at the fingers of one glove. “I want to show you something, but I need your promise before I do.”

  “My promise?”

  “That you won’t fear what you see.”

  “Okay.” Figgis shrugged. “You have it.”

  “Are you sure?” Marius stopped worrying at the glove. “I don’t ask this lightly, boy. I need your promise to be a man’s promise, you understand? Unbreakable, inviolate. Nobody knows about this but you and I. Not the captain, not Mister Spone. Nobody.”

  Figgis looked solemn, his face a child’s play-act of seriousness. “I promise.”

  “Okay.” Marius grasped the glove’s fingers and pulled, sliding it off in one swift movement. He held his hand before Figgis’ face. “You see?”

  “It’s a hand.”

  “Yes. And?”

  Figgis looked at it, then back at the shadow of Marius’ hood. “It’s a hand.”

  Marius looked at his hand. The boy was right. It was just a hand. His hand. Browned by the sun, the fingernails slightly ragged from too much time without attention, a maze of tiny scars and flaws from twenty years of living amongst the lower ends of society. His hand. He stared at it, and Figgis stared at him, a look of increasing worry on his young face.

  “Are you all right?”

  Slowly, Marius reached up and pulled back his hood. “What do you see?”

  Figgis shrugged. “I don’t know. You? Listen,” he shifted impatiently. “What’s any of this got to do with me taking you below decks?”

  “I…” Marius thought furiously, “I… do you know what fear of spaces is?”

  “What? Like, being outside and all?”

  “Yes, exactly.” Marius nodded. “I… I have it.”

  “But I seen you walking along the wharf, and about topside with Mister Spone and all.”

  “It’s… it’s difficult.” Marius lowered his eyes, as if staring at the floor, taking care to make sure his hand stayed within his line of vision. If he only had a glass, or something in which to see his reflection. “I can do it, but it… exhausts me. I… if I could spend some time, in that room, away from the outside…” He flicked his hand towards the open window. “I feel it, all the time, all around me…” He peeked up at Figgis. “Even if I could spend just a short time in this hidden store, away from people, away from…” he shuddered, “The sky. It would help me. You could help me.” He looked straight at the young boy. “I need a friend here, Figgis. Have I not been your friend?”

  His eyes slid to the empty bowl at Figgis’ feet. The cabin boy followed his gaze, and coloured .

  “Between third and fourth watch,” he said, scrambling to his feet and gathering up the bowl. “But only for a few minutes, mind?”

  “You have my word.”

  “And Mister Spone and the cap
tain never hear of it?”

  “Never.”

  “And if you’re caught…”

  “On my own head be it.”

  “Okay, then.” He opened the door, and half slid out. “Shouldn’t we… have some sort of secret knock or something?”

  “Don’t worry,” Marius smiled. “I’ll know it’s you.”

  “Okay.” Figgis left without another word. Marius lay back on his makeshift nest and stared out at the sliver of sky visible through the window. After all, he thought, who else would come and visit? He held his hand up. As he watched, the skin dried out, grew pale, then grey. His nails darkened. Cracks appeared in their surface. Small flakes dropped from his skin, and the fingers withered until they were little more than desiccated claws. He stifled a cry of alarm, and scrambled in his lap for the discarded glove, pulling it back on with a shaking hand. He curled into a foetal ball, and slowly reached up to pull the hood down over his face.

  Slowly, night suffused the cabin. Marius stifled a moan of despair as his eyesight adjusted to the darkness, picking out details in the room he knew he would be unable to see with living eyes. He heard bells sound to end the evening watch, and shortly thereafter, the muted barrage of feet thundering through the ship as weary sailors headed below to their hammocks for a few hours rest, and their replacements headed upwards to take up their stations. After that there was silence, other than the creaks and groans of a ship under sail, and the occasional sharp call as an order was relayed from mate to crew. A single toll of the bell marked off each hour. Then, just as midnight sounded, Marius heard a scratching outside his door. He sat up, suddenly alert. Three quick knocks rapped against his door, then a pause, and two more. He smiled. The never-changing nature of the boy child – a secret escapade must have a secret knock. Marius would almost lay money on being gifted a secret password by the end of tonight’s jaunt. He opened the door a crack.