ARC: The Corpse-Rat King

by Lee Battersby

  It lay on its side, stern pointing towards the sky, the gaping hole where its back had broken tilted down so that, at a casual glance, it looked to have rammed its prow deep into the sandy bottom. Marius leaned against a nearby rock and viewed the keel from what felt like a safe distance, although why he should feel safe when surrounded by open water rather than the ship’s wooden hull was something he couldn’t explain. Even from distance, it was massive. It was hard to gauge this far under water, with the silty bottom swirling about him in the dark, but what he could see seemed to be well over twenty feet wide, and the stern must have been sixty or seventy feet from the break. Growths covered the hulk, so that it might well have been mistaken for a natural outcropping from above. From this angle, below and to one side, Marius could clearly see the planks along the ship’s side, overlapping too regularly and smoothly to be anything other than man-made. The incline upon which the ship rested was a steep one, and Marius was faced with a quandary of sorts – to slip down beneath the vast mass and work his way inside via the open break, to risk his wellbeing against who knew what kind of creature that may have taken up residence, in the hope of some sort of loot to carry with him; or clamber up the slope and crest the obstacle at its uppermost point, which would result in less chance of booty but fewer opportunities of being eaten, theoretically, and he would at least learn the identity of the boat. In the end, his own nakedness decided him: what was the point of carving out booty when he had precious little ability to carry it, and unless he found his way to land, what would there be to spend it on? Marius was not yet resigned to spending his remaining lifespan under the waves, a resolution which required him to bypass this monstrous obstacle and continue on his path. He turned to the rising gradient, and crabbed his way towards the top.

  As he climbed, the slope took him nearer to the boat’s hull, until he could clearly see the keel’s clinker construction. Giant planks, several feet wide, overlaid and fastened together with nails whose heads looked like metal doors in the gloom. Marius raised a hand in front of his eye, and spread his fingers, trying to block one from view. Some small spark of recognition flared within him. He redoubled his efforts, stirring up great clouds of sediment as he scrambled up the slope. Eventually he cleared the hull and fought his way upwards, until only a dozen feet separated him and the surface of the water. Here the slope flattened out, forming a plateau that stretched away into the distance. Light bent differently this close to the surface. After so long in the depths, the world felt washed out, mirage-like, despite its proximity. For a moment Marius felt a flush of revulsion, and quickly turned away, back towards the comforting dark. He knelt at the edge of the plateau, and gazed down upon the giant stern, trying to gauge its height by the size of the broken windows that ran in rows across the flat face. Thirty feet, forty, fifty… there was no need. Two words ran across the top of the uppermost rows, eight feet high, the bright red lettering he remembered from his youth faded with exposure and the endless motion of the sea, but clear enough that Marius sank back onto his buttocks and hugged himself with the shock of recognition.

  He was staring at the long lost wreck of the Nancy Tulip.

  Marius stood under the massive stern and gazed at the wall of wood towering over his head. Even with much of the ship missing, and the rest barely visible beneath thirty years of underwater plant growth, the dimensions of it stretched his belief. In an instant he was a child again, staring up at the ship as it wobbled erratically out of the harbour and into the open ocean. He reached out, as he had done that day. This time, however, he made contact with the hull, sliding his hand over the thick slime and shaking it into the surrounding water. He stretched back, neck bones cracking as he examined the hull. He should be moving on. He had a quest to fulfil, a life to recover. He couldn’t afford to get sidetracked, or to lose his sense of direction. And yet…

  The adult Marius was dead, but the eight year-old reared up out of his memory with all the vitality of a child up past his bedtime to go and see something wonderful down at the docks. He had to know. Even if all he found were crumbling uprights, transparent squids, and rotting detritus, he had to see inside, to try and touch at least a fantasy of what it must have been like to embark on that mad, fatal, glorious voyage. Marius gained as firm a grip as possible on a nail head that protruded at head height, and hauled himself up. Feet slipping, lurching from one precarious handhold to another, he began to climb.

  Twenty minutes later, he had his hands around the throat of his inner eight-year old and was giving him a damn good shaking. How someone so dead could possibly have heart palpitations so painful was beyond him, but there he was, half in and half out of a gun port, wondering whether it was possible to vomit when you haven’t eaten for a week and a half. To make matters worse, he didn’t have any breath to catch, and the one time he’d given in to instinct and gasped a lungful in, he’d ended up with a mouthful of slimy water that made him glad there was nothing in his stomach for it to react with. Something was seriously wrong with his death, he thought for the umpteenth time. If he ever made it back to a proper grave, he was going to have to speak to someone.

  Eventually, the spinning stopped, and he was able to stare down into the cavernous interior of the Nancy Tulip. Frankly, it was a disappointment. He’d managed to climb as far as the cannon deck, a long, empty room designed for two things—the cannons that lay somewhere below, at the lower end of the tilted floor, and as much space as possible for the multitude of gunners, deck masters, powder boys, and medics to move without tripping over each other or getting in the way of the recoiling guns. When the ship had sunk, and twisted against the slope, everything on the deck had slid away, below the limit of Marius’ vision. All that remained was a vast emptiness, with the occasional rotting plank looming up like a peasant’s tooth. Marius slowly scanned the space in front of him. He had half-expected it, of course, but still… He shrugged, then hurriedly grabbed the edges of the hole as the movement caused him to overbalance. A piece of wood broke off underneath him, and spiralled away into the darkness, clunking dully against hidden obstacles as it fell. Marius gathered his remaining strength, drew his legs underneath him so that he squatted on the edge of the hole, and continued his climb.

  When at last he reached the top deck, it was like cresting the top of a mountain. Once there, what else was left do but gaze downwards in all directions, knowing with utter certainty that you sat at the top of the world, and that no moment, no matter what you might achieve, could ever match this one, perfect sensation? Marius had no flag to plant, and no commission to claim the rotting hulk in the name of anybody, yet could not escape the need to do something to mark the occasion. He settled for sitting on a relatively sturdy piece of railing and picking the splinters out of his hands, knees and feet while he stared across the ruined deck.

  In truth, there was very little left. The hills around Borgho City were not known for their hardwoods, and much of the upper decking had been crafted from the pine trees that littered the surrounding areas. The seas had eaten the soft wood: only the spars remained, and some of the support structures. The immense oak masts had snapped during the descent: their bases remained, so massive and imposing that Marius could only guess at how it must have been to stand below them or even more incredibly, climb up them to stand upon the cross beams and pull in the acres of material that had made up the sails. Much of the deck had gone, but surprisingly, the enormous round silhouette of the wheel could be seen, and behind it… Marius gasped, and sputtered as he drew in another mouthful of water.

  Behind it, glinting dully in the wavering light, was a corner of King’s stateroom, a structure made entirely of gold. Marius remembered it passing in the afternoon sun, rearing from the poop deck like a bullion bar of the Gods. Now he stared at the bulky shadow, his hand raised to his mouth. It was impossible to believe. A fortune in gold, literally a king’s fortune, and all he had to do was climb down to it. Marius’ lips pursed, and his fingers gained fresh splinters as they tightened u
pon the wood. Climb down to it, all right, and then what? Naked, a dozen feet underwater, and without a single tool or friend to help. Well, he thought, maybe if I lick hard enough I can carry some on my tongue.

  But he had to know. He had to at least touch it. Carefully, testing every step before he took it, he tiptoed over the edge of the hull and onto the nearest spar. It creaked ominously, and trembled as it adjusted to his weight. Marius froze, then, with nobody to be embarrassed in front of, turned his belly to the wood and inched his way down it like a child too scared to slide down a banister the proper way. He reached a cross beam and took a moment to rest. When he was sure it wouldn’t break and send him tumbling down into the dark below, he crept across it, resisting the urge to lunge at the next spar and hang for dear life. Slowly, footstep by quavering footstep, he made his way towards the stateroom, until he could reach out one trembling hand, and let himself fall onto the ice-cold metal of its port wall. He lay against it for several minutes, eyes closed, feeling the smoothness beneath his cheek. A bed made of gold. Not since his nights of pretending to be the Emir’s eunuch had he slept in a bed of gold, and this time, nobody was waiting to stick anything up his rectum should he try to carry any of it away. He ran a hand across it, fingers cupping the corner. A frown crossed his face. He ran his fingers back round the corner, then forward again, then opened his eyes and focused on the path the fingers had cleared in the ever-present algae.

  Tacks. A line of tiny tacks, running along a seam just the other side of the corner. Marius focused, peered closer. He could just make out a seam. He picked at it with one finger, slowly worming his finger under until a flap opened up. He pulled harder, and the sheet peeled away, revealing the wooden upright to which it had been attached. Marius snorted. Tin plate! Tin plate, with the slimmest covering of gold foil, pinned to wood like any other structure. That cheap, lying, faking nutcase. Marius lay back against the wall, shoulders slumped. All that effort. The eight year-old within him shrugged as if to say “Adults. What did you expect?” and went back to playing in his room. Marius stared at the broken corner, and contemplated the journey to the ocean floor.

  After a while, though, he shook himself out of his malaise. He was still on the Nancy Tulip. He was still at the door of the stateroom. Gods, even if there were no walls of gold to be found, it was still the ship of Nandus. And, he reminded himself, Nandus was a king, even if he was mad as a ferret in a bucket of honey. The thought that had been clamouring to speak since he had seen the name etched onto the stern raised its hand for attention, and this time, Marius let it talk.

  If he hadn’t hatched some scheme about using the lifeboats to open a second front and left the ship before it sank; if he hadn’t thrown himself over the side when the sea swamped the deck; if he hadn’t been in the prow, on deck, anywhere else on top; then Nandus, mad as he was, but oh, most definitely a king, might be lying in whatever shape the sea had left him, on the other side of the wall. Marius stared at the open flap of metal, and began to laugh.

  The dead had demanded a king. Nobody had said he had to be animate.

  Marius slid over to the spar supporting the front of the structure. He made sure of his footing, dug his fingers under the flap of tin, and began to pull.

  Marius ducked his head through the hole and peered into the black water. The water was stiller inside the stateroom than out, felt somehow thicker and more fetid against his skin. Slowly, he slipped inside, turning so he hung onto the edge of the framework with his fingers while his feet scrabbled for purchase. Something flapped at the limits of his vision and he stiffened, images of giant killer octopuses filling his imagination. Then he focused, and saw the tattered remnant of some type of tapestry, stirred by his kicking. Marius frowned. Surely, thirty years below water would destroy any fabric that had once hung on the walls. Which meant that the tapestry below must be made of some other material. Metal, perhaps. Marius had seen shirts woven from thin strands of gold and silver, soft as silk and worn by the richest, most stylish nobles in Scorby. He’d almost won one, once, in a game of Kingdom, but had been foiled by a messenger arriving with news of a royal coup, just as he was laying down a hand filled with a now-dead royal family. He blinked, remembering how much the shirt had been worth. The tapestry must be eight feet high, he decided, perhaps three or four feet wide. He could wrap it around himself like a toga, wear it rather than carry it. A tapestry that size, even if it were only made of silver threads… Marius was good at math. All con men are. But the equation had too many zeroes to keep track of. Suddenly, twelve feet below the surface seemed a lot warmer. Marius watched the bottom edge of the tapestry float into sight, then back again, counting the number of seconds in each ebb and flow. As soon as he was sure of the rhythm he held his breath, counted to the right number, aimed for the correct spot, and let go the beam.

  And missed.

  The trailing edge of the tapestry waved to him as he sank past, flailing in despair at the three inches of space between his fingertips and the fabric. The deck of the Nancy Tulip was thirty feet wide, and there was only a foot or so between each outer wall and the outer railing. Marius had launched himself at an angle, and his despairing movement caused him to tumble as he fell. He didn’t see the wall that jutted out from the rear of the building, only felt the solid edge as he crashed against it. Something snapped, and Marius had time to hope it was the wood and not his hip as he spun away and collided, back first, with the lower wall.

  He slid down until he lay in the crook of wall and floor, staring up at the gloom through which he had fallen. Slowly, details began to emerge – from this angle he was able to make more sense of the interior architecture than he had when hanging from the other wall. To his right, a massive sliding door hung loosely upon its frame, its control wheel clearly visible. A bas relief was carved into its inner surface. Marius squinted, trying to make out details through the carpet of barnacles and plant life. A series of human figures. A procession of women, bearing whips and carrying saddles. Marius turned his attention to the rear wall. There were some aspects of kingly life that were better hidden, he decided. That was one side of Nandus he could live without understanding. He found the wall against which he had crashed, and smiled in relief as he saw where a chunk towards the end had been removed by his fall. The wall protruded several feet into the room, and now that he was looking, Marius could see another one maybe four feet above it, and another above that. Huge, triangular hinges hung downwards from the front edge, and the remains of what appeared to be a gate hung from lowest wall. Marius tilted his head to take in the view from the right angle. The gate reached about halfway up the wall. In fact, if he pictured it closed, and another one over the space above, he could easily see the spaces as some sort of cubicle, like the brothels of Hayst, or… Marius blinked in astonishment. Stables. They were stables. This entire stateroom, with tapestries of immeasurable wealth hanging from gold-plated walls, and floors, he realized as he attempted to stand, of the same slippery substance, turned over to horses. Well, one horse, he supposed. Littleboots, favoured friend of the King and the only four-legged member of the imaginary Scorban senate. In a way, Marius was relieved, particularly when he considered the whip-wielding women on the interior of the doors. But if this was the horse’s realm, one question remained. Unless he slept in the stables along with his horse, where were the King’s quarters?

  Marius slid along his perch until he reached the point where walls and floor coincided. A pile of bones lay in an untidy bundle. He grabbed an elongated femur and used it to lever himself upright, where he could raise his hands on either side and balance against the three surfaces. He glanced down, and saw a heavy, equine skull staring up at him.

  “Evening, senator,” he thought, and almost overbalanced as a fit of giggles took him. The horse’s skull made no reply, so Marius put his foot against it and levered himself upwards. The lowest stable wall was out of reach. Marius leaped at it anyway, and floated gently down to lose his footing against the slick gold flo
or, landing in a heap amongst Littleboots’ bones. He lay there, tapping his hand against Littleboots’ forehead in frustration, ignoring the swirl of sediment.

  You’re underwater, you fool. Swim up.

  Marius could not swim. But he could thrash his arms and legs about like someone trying to catch arrows shot at him by a thousand angry archers. He carefully placed one foot on either angled surface beneath him, crouched down to gather as much strength as possible into his legs, and leaped. He sailed forward in a graceless arc, whipping the water to a froth. Miraculously, he began to rise. Marius kept his eyes fixed upon the prize – the wall, ten feet above him, but getting closer, closer. He beat the water with renewed urgency, until the muscles in his shoulders and thighs began to seize up from the exertion, and rose in a series of little gulps, his efforts growing more and more frog-like as he lost what little sense of rhythm he possessed. His fingers brushed the underside of the wall, then again. He gave one last, almighty effort, and with the sound of his shoulder popping echoing through his skull, wedged three fingers over the top of the wall. And there he hung, a half-inflated parade puppet, while his muscles twitched and spasmed, and he realized with incredulity that he was gasping in pain. Barely had he time to register the sensation before his fingers began to lose their precarious grip. Marius heaved his other arm up, and found purchase for his hand. Legs pumping and kicking, he drew himself up until his arms were fully over the edge and he could lever his upper body up. He plumped forward like a seal leaving the ocean, until, at last, he swung his legs over and lay on his back, gasping, no longer caring that he drew in only water and microscopic particles of filth. If it was instinct, then so be it. He needed the release, needed to calm the fandango in his chest cavity and let die the painful thumping behind his eyes.