There were only a few glances for their shrouded cargo—far more interesting sights abounded. Merchants were carrying cages of brightly-colored birds from the New World, and one was holding the tether of an ape which had clearly had its fur dyed red. Another trader passed by with an enormous ruff-necked reptile draped over his shoulders.
“Is this what Carnival is like?” Serena asked. She had tied her shoes around her neck and was squeezing her toes into the wet gray sand. The porters were beginning to grunt.
“No,” said Gilchrist.
“But this is where it goes on.” Serena put a hand on her hip and looked over the crowd. “Lensa.”
“The city of Lensa is a league from here,” Crane said. “This is only the Lighthouse.”
Serena tugged the hem of her shirt and fanned it, grinning. One of the porters faltered at the flash of sunny skin. “I like it. Lots of people.”
“We’ll pitch here,” Gilchrist said. “Crane. Papers?”
Crane produced the documents with a flourish, sealed by the Doge of Lensa’s leaping dolphin, and left to present them. The porters gently lowered the tank and then went off down the beach to wait, massaging their shoulders. Gilchrist had brought a canvas tent, just large enough to cover the tank and provide some shade for when the sun rose high. He had to drive the pegs very deep, muscles all taut across his back, and Serena watched with interest.
“How old are you, Gilly?” she asked, splaying her hands in the sand.
Gilchrist said nothing.
“How old are you, Gilchrist?” Serena asked. She puffed air between her lips, and a strand of hair fluttered off her forehead.
“Thirty-odd. No record.”
“You should go out to the islands before you’re too old,” Serena said. “The women will line up. They don’t mind that gypsy color.” She leaned her head back. “I don’t, anyways.”
Gilchrist finished with the pegs and waded out to wash the sweat off his face. Crane was there when he arrived back.
“Our inspection will be in an hour or so,” Crane said, stripping off his stormcoat. His pale face was beaded with sweat, and the veins of his neck were bruise-blue. “I had forgotten the heat. Rather reminiscent of the New World, is it not?”
“It’s no Brask,” Gilchrist said, thinking of a city with perpetual rain and icy canals. His look was recognized.
“Brask is not going anywhere,” Crane said. “We need to focus on the matter at hand, Gilchrist. On the plan.”
“I know.” Gilchrist turned to Serena, who was now spread out on the sand with her eyes slacked shut. “Serena. Time to get the mermaid ready.”
Her eyes stayed closed, but her mouth opened on a white smile.
* * *
The magistrate for Baron Cassius’ menagerie was small and balding, dressed in a wine-red tunic cut in the Lensa style and holding a water-rumpled book. Crane and Gilchrist bowed their heads as he approached and offered the more informal handshakes now becoming customary among merchants.
“Documents seem to be in order,” the magistrate said, flipping the page and looking it up and down. “Now. What have you got, exactly? Don’t tell me it’s another ape, we have more than I could count in a lifetime.”
“Nothing so pedestrian,” Crane said, with a hint of affront. “What you are about to see in this tent requires no elaborate story-telling to excite the imagination.” He spread his arms to his sides. “Suffice to say, after years of hunting through Brask’s sewers, we’ve at long last snared a living mermaid.”
Before the magistrate could form a reaction, Gilchrist opened the tent and pointed inside. The shroud had been cast off, and inside the tank was the sylph of a thousand sea-tales. Her skin was ghostly pale, and her hair floated in tendrils around an exquisite face. Silver-gray scales sprouted at her navel, her hips, then thickened into a finned tail. The mermaid had dozed in the dark but now came awake, eyes opening jet black. Her tail flexed and rasped against the glass.
“Blood of a god,” the magistrate murmured. He crouched down in front of the tank.
“She’s terribly cramped in there,” Crane said, crouching beside him. “You understand my request to bypass the usual wait.”
“Of course. Of course.” The magistrate straightened up and scanned the top of the tank for a breathing tube, but of course it was bare. He had known it would be from the moment he laid eyes on the creature.
“You wouldn’t believe the ruckus over it in Brask,” Crane said in a low voice. “Terribly unstable up there, though. It was in our best interests and hers to make the voyage south.”
“How long?” the magistrate croaked. “How long have you had her?” He put his face up to the glass and stared. Not a single bubble slipped from between the perfect lips.
“A month, now.” Crane rested his hand affectionately on the top of the tank. “More than long enough to know we’ve made an extremely valuable find.”
“Nobody will compensate better than the Baron,” the magistrate said sharply. “Blood of a god. I’ve seen skeletons, of course, but I was never sure....”
“That’s long enough,” said Gilchrist. “We don’t want a crowd gathering.”
“Of course,” said the magistrate. He shook his head and backed out of the tent, like the pagans of old from their idols. Gilchrist threw the shroud and followed, closing the tent behind them. The magistrate was blinking in the sunlight as if he’d crossed over from an entirely different world.
“I trust you’ll find us accommodation for the night,” Crane said, slapping him on the shoulder.
“Accommodation?” The magistrate smiled vaguely, removing Crane’s fingers. “My good man, you’ll be at the very top of the Lighthouse.” His eyes went back to the tent. “Does she sing?”
“To bring a northman to tears,” said Crane.
The magistrate nodded eagerly and hurried away, feet sliding in the sand. Gilchrist ran a finger under his eye and Crane laughed, but with an edge. They ducked back inside the darkened tent without speaking.
* * *
Crane retrieved the porters and the porters retrieved the shrouded tank. Their procession trudged down the beach, past the array of makeshift tents and exotic animals and merchants staring with undisguised jealousy. Gilchrist returned the stares, and they quickly diminished. The sun was beginning to wade back into the sea, turning rust-red.
“The magistrate seemed quite taken with our merchandise,” Crane remarked. “I was very nearly embarrassed for him.”
“The Baron won’t be as easy,” Gilchrist said.
“Perhaps, perhaps not.” Crane shrugged. “They do say he’s gone mad.”
“They do.”
There was a lift cage at the base of the lighthouse, an iron mesh built to ferry cargo, and after showing the magistrate’s seal they were allowed inside. The porters helped slide the cage shut before departing, and then, with a gnashing of metal on stone, the clockwork machinery began to winch them up the side.
When they were halfway up, Gilchrist slid the top off the tank. Serena surfaced slowly, removing the breathing tube. Her face was pale, and the spaces under her eyes were mottled purple in a way the makeup did not entirely account for.
“You did well,” Gilchrist said.
“I’ve held longer.” Serena stretched and her neck clicked. “But this box. Unh. Not comfortable.”
“Scandalous, really, how aquarium tanks are so rarely designed for comfort,” Crane said, peering down through the iron bars. The beach was blurring below them. “Have you kept the prosthetic intact?”
Serena wriggled the tail in answer.
“It truly is remarkable work,” Crane said, observing the splash. “The old man told me he once designed costumes for the Doge’s children.”
“Anything looks good in the dark,” Gilchrist said.
“That so, Gilly?” Serena asked, mischievous. She gulped a mouthful of water and shot it out in a long wobbling stream.
By the time the lift lurched to a halt, evening wind w
as ruffling their clothes. Serena had returned to the tank, the breathing tube snaked up through one corner, and so she missed the view. Through the elevator cage Gilchrist and Crane could see far up the coast, away towards Brask, and far across the shifting ocean that separated them from the New World.
“Where to after this, Gilchrist?” Crane asked.
“Anywhere,” Gilchrist said.
There was a boy at the top to open the cage, and he shifted from foot to stockinged foot as Gilchrist and Crane carefully hoisted the tank. The stone inside the Lighthouse had certainly never been hauled by cyclopes. It was close-fitting and mason-cut, and the floors were veined marble crafted by the Doge’s best architects. Gilchrist and Crane walked slowly to keep the tank level.
“Greetings, once again.” The magistrate was waiting by the door. “My apologies. I thought I had sent for porters.”
“No need,” Gilchrist said.
The magistrate’s eyed fluttered over him and returned to Crane. “I hope you find the chambers suitable. If any additional measures are needed for, ah, for your charge....” He gave the tank a longing look. “Send a pneumograph and we’ll have someone along very quickly.”
“Thank you,” Crane said. “And in regards to the audience?”
“Tomorrow. Ten bells.” The magistrate nodded. “The Baron sounded quite interested. As he should be, of course.”
“Of course,” Crane echoed. “A good evening to you.”
“Please don’t be late.”
The magistrate slid away, and Gilchrist sent the boy scurrying after him with a pointed look. Once inside the doors, they set the tank down with a slosh and thud. The room was as large as could be expected, with an impressive bed nested by silk pillows and a ceiling set with gas lamps. There were no windows, but one of Lensa’s more famous murals had been recreated on the far wall.
Crane stretched one arm. Gilchrist began rubbing a knot out of his shoulder. Serena came up spluttering.
“Room looks comfortable,” she said. “Help me out.”
Crane locked the doors and Gilchrist spread the canvas tent out to avoid incriminating wet footprints on the marble. Serena wriggled out of the prosthetic like some bizarre marine nascency while Gilchrist looked away, then clambered naked out of the tank.
“Better,” she sighed, wringing out her hair.
“In the interests of comfort, perhaps you’d like to remain in the nude,” Crane suggested. His wide mouth was smiling.
“Give me my clothes, Crane. Bastard.”
“I have only your best interests at heart,” Crane said, but he handed them over. Gilchrist’s gaze strayed only once, raking over the camber of her hips and tracking a bead of water down her stomach. Then she was dressed, still unearthly-looking in complexion but with the silver scales hidden out of sight.
“What now?” she asked. She wrapped her hair in an orange scarf.
“We wait,” Gilchrist said.
“And to aid in that, we drink,” Crane said, hefting a bottle from the small circular table. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, these are some of Lensa’s finest vintages.” He stabbed open the seal and splashed dark wine into one cup and then the other.
“Only two glasses,” Serena snorted. “As though mermaids don’t drink.”
“I’ll take it upon myself to imbibe like the barbarians.” Crane pushed the two glasses towards them and hefted the bottle by the neck. “To our continued success in the bestiary business.”
Glass clinked. They drank in silence.
“This tastes terrible,” Serena finally said, considering the glass and licking her lips. She shrugged her shoulders, drained the rest.
Crane looked over at Gilchrist. “I suppose it’s only natural she drink like a fish.”
“Droll, Mr. Crane.” Gilchrist finished his drink and held it out for another.
* * *
He was still half-drunk when Serena woke him in the night. Her fingers were drumming a tattoo on his arm, and he came awake grabbing them. The bones felt like rasping twigs. She swore at him and he let go.
“Ouch,” Serena hissed, rubbing her fingers.
“What is it?” Gilchrist asked. He looked to the side and saw Crane sleeping in freefall, limbs cast out over the bedding. His nose was red.
“I want to see the light,” Serena said. “On top. Come on, Gilly.”
“You can’t be seen,” Gilchrist said. His mouth was thick.
“Then come stop me.” Serena slid out of easy reach and went to the door. She leaned her head against the wood. “Come on. Don’t you want to see it?”
“I’ve seen it,” Gilchrist said. Serena puffed a laugh into her shoulder and slipped through the door. Gilchrist reached mechanically for his coat.
“Mr. Gilchrist, the hour is unholy,” Crane mumbled. “Has our facade been compromised?” His one eye slitted open, roving around the room, then fluttered shut.
“Serena. I’ll handle it.”
Crane’s chuckle was half-smothered in pillow. “At long last,” he said, and then nothing else.
Gilchrist’s bare feet slapped on the cold marble. He didn’t bother hunting his shoes in the dark. The door creaked only slightly on his way out, and he went to the last staircase. The sound of late-night revelers tumbled down, and as he came up into the night air he had to shield his eyes against fiery orange darts.
“Ho, there.” Serena grabbed his arm, nearly bowling over a stout drunk man wearing a jangling belt. “Come to the rail with me.”
Gilchrist blinked his eyes clear. The signal light was raised above them, flicking sparks off into the night and obliterating the stars, painfully bright. A few small knots of people lounged against the rail, murmuring and laughing and passing drinks. They looked like living shadows.
“We’re dead if you’re recognized,” Gilchrist said.
“Crane says we’re dead if anything goes wrong tomorrow,” Serena said. She pressed something cold against his stomach, and he realized she’d brought the last of the wine. “And I know how I’d rather spend my last night. Don’t you?”
She found a clear space on the rail, away from the others, and Gilchrist joined her. The lighthouse fire crackled above and behind their heads. The sea was ink-dark.
“You don’t like me much,” Serena said.
Gilchrist took a drink. His teeth knocked against the bottle.
“Because I remind you,” Serena said. “Remind you you’re not a snowface.”
“You act like a savage.”
“So?” Serena took the bottle back. “So? Maybe I act how people want. Maybe you should try. They’d like you more.” She paused. “You must hate it so bad. The animal man, he talked right past you. They always think Crane is the boss, don’t they?”
“I don’t care,” Gilchrist said, and he didn’t. He put his elbows on the rail and looked out and listened to Serena finish the wine.
“You and Crane aren’t merchants,” she said after a while. “Not even the shadiest kind.”
“No.”
“Why are you trying to cheat the Baron?” Serena asked. “I mean, I like it. On the islands, we cheat. If you sell sham pearl to a wise trader, you’re a hero. But if you’re caught, oh. If you’re caught very badly, they make you swallow an oyster with twine attached.” She indicated the size with thumb and finger. “Then they dredge it up your stomach like pulling a root. To carve out all the lies. Out your throat.”
“You’ve never been caught,” Gilchrist guessed.
“No, never have.” Serena’s shoulder slipped against him. Her fingers wormed between his on the rail, dark and ceruse-pale.
“We settle our scores,” Gilchrist said, looking at their entwined hands. “Me and Crane. We saw the opportunity.”
“You don’t like the Baron much.”
“Before he was the Baron.” Gilchrist’s hand scratched behind his ear. “He was a bulldog for the Doge of Lensa. In charge of the port authority. He had an ichor for smugglers.”
“You’re smuggl
ers,” Serena said triumphantly. Her smiled gleamed.
“Habitually.”
“What happened?”
Gilchrist nodded his chin towards the dark ocean. “We were on our way to the New World. Ten years ago. We were in a hurry from Brask. Ship stopped in for supplies, and Cassius had us raided.”
“Crane told me you went to the New World,” Serena said. “When he found me. I thought it was crabshit at first.”
“No.”
“And the raid?” Serena’s face was close in the dark. She smelled like the wine.
“Put us in a pen, flogged for confessions,” Gilchrist said. “He did a few himself. He enjoys it. Same he does with the animals. They aren’t allowed to brand on suspicion, but he did it anyways. Enjoyed that the most.” Gilchrist paused. “There’s a scar on his lip like a little envelope. Told him I’d open it one day.” He looked across at Serena. “Bleed him out like a sheep.”
“You’ve done that before. Got those eyes.”
“I don’t know.” Gilchrist stared out at the sea again. “Crane had an inside man. We got out. When we got out, Cassius had the rest of the holding pen executed. Off the record. Put a knife on the floor and then murdered them all. Cited it as suppressing violent rebellion.”
The silence stretched out between them. The other couples and trios were drifting back down the stairs, bottles emptied.
“It’s cold,” Serena finally said. She moved his arm and draped it over her shoulder. Her head tipped against his neck.
Gilchrist let his hand find the shard of her hipbone under her skin.
“I think that you don’t like me,” Serena said, “because some snowface girl tore you up. In Brask?”
“Long time ago,” Gilchrist said. “Everything was a long time ago.”
“If I can’t count it in breaths, I don’t keep track of time.” Serena hooked her chin into his collarbone. His skin flushed warm. “How many breaths can you hold for?”
Beneath Ceaseless Skies #119 Page 2
