by Heidi Heilig
The oarsman screamed as she raked his leg with clawed hands; the chummer stumbled as the boat rocked. I swore, taking us back around to help, but the chummer finally got hold of the harpoon. He tore it from the mermaid’s shoulder as we approached, and with a cry, he heaved it at my head. “The devil drag you down!”
Cursing, I swerved; the weapon glanced off the port side and disappeared into our wake.
“Let’s go!” Dahut shouted, tugging at the wheel. “Come on!”
I held firm. “They’re going to sink without our help!”
“They’re going to kill us if we try to give it!”
“You tried to kill them first!”
“No! No!” Dahut’s eyes were wild, pleading. “I was trying to save her.”
“We can’t do that either if we run!”
“Fine.” She gritted her teeth, yanking open the cupboard in the cockpit; she pulled out a flare gun and hunkered down in the shelter of the stairwell.
I didn’t bother protesting. Where was the harpooner? I eased up on the throttle, dreading the sound of a thud against the hull or the whine of a drag on the motor. Momentum carried us the rest of the way, but as we closed the distance, the oarsman abandoned ship. He was followed quickly by the chummer, and they both made for the nearest fishing boat. I didn’t go after them—but I watched them swim to safety, shivering and swearing as their fellows hauled them out of the water.
Still no sign of the third man. Had he drowned, or worse? I cut the motor as the Dark Horse nosed up to the stricken boat. From the next boat, fifteen yards to port, the fishermen threw daggers with their eyes, and I couldn’t help but notice that they still had their harpoons.
Kash noticed too. “We should go.”
“We should,” I said, but I hesitated. The mermaid still lay there, gasping over the oarsman’s seat. She was such an odd beast—not half human and half fish, but a blend of the two. The skin of her face shone with tiny scales. Her spine was ridged, and fins flexed along the backs of her arms; like a ray, she had gills along her ribs. She was as alien as any creature from the depths. But suffering is universal. Drawing out the bottle of mercury in my pocket, I stepped down into the swamped fishing boat.
The water was freezing. The shock of it sent a jolt through me, but thankfully it only reached to my knees. I sent another worried glance across the water—the missing harpooner was at risk of hypothermia, on top of whatever lurked below the surface—but I saw no sign of him.
As I approached the mermaid, her tail twisted, but I could tell she had little fight left. Uncorking the bottle, I leaned out, keeping my distance as I dripped mercury over the pale, wet skin of her shoulder, where the harpoon had struck. Before my eyes, the skin knitted, sealing shut. It made my stomach turn.
“Amira?”
“Almost done!”
The fishhook posed a more complex problem, but I’d fished with Rotgut before. It was a simple contraption—no barb. Still, there was no way to pull it out backward without reaching down her throat and past her teeth.
The fisherman’s blade was still in the bottom of the dinghy, gleaming through the murky red bilge; I used it to cut the rope short. Then, slowly, I inched close enough to take hold of the curve of the hook, my fingers brushing the glittering scales of her throat—so cold. In one quick motion, I yanked the assembly straight through.
The mermaid thrashed again as the rope passed through the hole. I fell back into the icy red water in the boat, though her scream was more chilling. Scrambling to my feet, I tossed the hook overboard; once she stopped writhing, I poured mercury over the wound.
Her mouth gaped as she healed, showing me her needle teeth. Was it a threat? I stepped back over the bench, picking up the abandoned blade, but she made no move toward me. Instead, she grasped the side of the boat and heaved herself back into the water.
The boat rocked underfoot. I watched, my heart pounding, as the ripples disappeared. What was I waiting for? Some sign of thanks or recognition? I shook my head at my childish hope—this was not that sort of fairy tale. Then Kashmir called to me again, a warning in his voice. “Amira.”
I looked up, expecting to see the fishermen edging closer, but they were showing their sterns, the oarsmen pulling hard toward the safety of the city. Then a familiar voice drifted over from the other side of the yacht. “What in the devil’s dark arse is this?”
Striped sails loomed as the Fool drew alongside. Gwen stood at the rail in all her wild glory, and there, beside her, the harpooner shivered under a rough woolen blanket. I was oddly relieved to see them both alive, but my relief knotted into irritation as Gwen tossed down a rope. She boarded the Dark Horse as easily as she’d boarded the Temptation—as though she owned whatever she saw. I scrambled back aboard too, leaving the swamped fishing boat to the mercy of the sea.
Gwen swore when she saw me. “Jumped ship, did you? Fickle thing.”
“You’re one to talk.” I made a face as I wrung mermaid blood from the bottom of my cloak. “Go back to the Fool, where you belong.”
She gave me a grim smile. “That’s just what I’m doing. Where’d you leave him?”
It took me a moment to realize she was talking about my father. “He’s at the castle,” I replied primly. “With my mother. His wife.”
“Well.” Her smile froze on her face. “Well, well, well.”
Gwen crossed her arms and gazed across the water, far and beyond the horizon. The wind ruffled her curls and played with the feather in her hat, and I almost felt sorry for her. Almost. “Is that why you turned around?” I said. “For him?”
“Half a mile out, we hit a bank of fog, thick as spoiled milk.” She shook her head. “It only lifted when I turned round. It seemed to me a sign.”
“Of what?”
“Don’t know anymore. But he saved my life once. And when a life is saved, a debt’s created.”
“And this is how you repay it?” I jerked my chin toward the Fool. “By taking up a trade you knew he’d hate?”
“I only said that to pinch him, you stupid girl. My hold is full of Irish lace.” She glared at me, as though daring me to say something. “The payment for a life is a life. I’m going to save his so there’s nothing owed. And then maybe I can forget his name.”
“Save him?” I watched as she took hold of the rope again. “From what?”
“I saw the way he looked,” she said. “I know the face of despair.”
“There’s a lot that can change in a day.”
“I know that too, believe me.”
Gwen shimmied up the rope, shouting orders to raise the sails, and Dahut peeked out from the shelter of the stairs, still holding the flare gun. “Who was she?”
“Her name is Gwen. Gwenolé.” I frowned as a thought began to form, but before it coalesced, Gwen called down to Dahut.
“You’re mixed up in this too?” She spat on the deck. “I knew you were bad luck. Where are your masters, girl?”
Dahut adjusted her grip on the flare gun. “Who?”
“The two men who sailed with you. The ones who brought you here.”
I blinked. “Two?”
“Did you curse me for leaving them?” Gwen called to Dahut. “Did you bring the fog?”
“What do you mean, two?” I called back.
“Ask her!”
“I don’t remember!” Dahut said, exasperated, but the next question died on my lips as the wind carried the distant sound of bells to my ears.
Spinning around, I swore. Back at the city, the fishing boats were pouring through the gates and into the safety of the harbor. Outside, I could see the tide rising along the wall in a wave. I ran to the helm. “Hold on!”
We left the Fool in our white wake as Gwen cursed our names. I cursed right back. Ahead, eddies were forming near the base of the wall. As the gates began to move, I gave it all she had. The Dark Horse rose, her prow cutting through the water, running over the waves just like the legend promised. The motor roared, the wind whipped my hai
r—and I held a grin between my teeth; my own ship was not half so fast. Streaming away from our stern, a wake like the tail of a comet, and the Dark Horse burst into the harbor as the doors slammed shut behind us.
Easing up quickly, I whooped like a maniac as the wave of our entry rolled up toward the wharf, making the boats bob—and sloshing water right at Crowhurst’s feet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
My giddy thrill twisted into dread; beside me, Dahut stiffened. Her father was practically hopping with anger. He’d brought four guards to the wharf, and sunlight gleamed on the hilts of their swords.
As if that was not enough, the fishermen had clustered in groups on the pier, muttering and casting dark glances our way. News of the scrum on the water had clearly spread—and they might not know their harpooner had been rescued.
Maybe Crowhurst’s guards were not such a bad thing.
Then I saw Blake, hailing us from the deck of the Temptation, and the tension between my shoulders eased a little further. Though his presence only brought us up to four against five, he was an excellent shot, if it came to that.
But the gun was still in my pocket. Could I use it bluff our way out of this? I bit my lip, considering. As though reading my thoughts, Kashmir turned to me. “What are we going to do, amira?”
I glanced over my shoulder—the gates were firmly shut. There was no escape, not until the next low tide. But we couldn’t have left anyway—not without my family, not without my ship. “Same plan,” I said softly, slipping my hand into my pocket. “We’re gathering the crew and taking Dahut to Boeotia.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You swear you’ll try to help me?”
I was almost offended. “Of course.”
“Then I’ll go with him, for now.” To my surprise, she tossed the flare gun into the cupboard. I met her eyes, a question in my own, but she was resolved, and I couldn’t deny I was relieved.
“All right.” Swallowing the lump in my throat, I released the gun and motored toward the pier. Then, hidden from view by the helm, she pulled the diary from her pocket and pressed it against my leg.
“Keep this for me,” she whispered. “Don’t let me forget.”
I let the throttle slip into neutral; we glided up to the dock as my hand closed around the book.
“What are you doing?” Crowhurst shouted from the pier. “What on earth was going through your head?”
Her response was blithe. “I can’t remember.”
“This isn’t a game! You could have killed yourselves out there!”
“Sorry, Father.” Dahut’s voice was unusually contrite, and she tossed him the rope to belay to the bollard. While his eyes were on her, I slipped the book into the pocket of my cloak. Then I went to turn the ignition, but I froze with the keys on my palm. I recognized one of them: an ornate brass thing that looked a bit like a cross. The long gold chain still dangled from it.
“Give me those!” Crowhurst snatched the keys out of my hand. Standing there at the helm, he loomed over me, but Kash was right by my side.
“We’re all safe,” he said, his tone soothing. “No need to shout.”
“All’s well that ends well,” Blake added with forced cheer as he trotted down the pier. Billie followed close at his heels, wagging her tail.
Crowhurst took a deep breath then, glancing from Billie and Blake to Kashmir and me—but I was staring at the keys that dangled from his fist. There it was, the brass key. Had he taken it from a dead man’s neck? He looked down at the set for a moment, then back up. “What’s wrong, Nix?”
“Nothing.” I shook my head, but I’d spoken too quickly; he narrowed his eyes. Tucking the keys into his pocket, he pulled himself together, glancing from me to Dahut and back.
“I shouldn’t have yelled,” he said. “I’m sorry. But I have to keep her safe. You understand?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“You can’t always listen to what she says,” he added. “She forgets things.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see anger flash across Dahut’s face; I only nodded. “Sure.”
Crowhurst took a deep breath, straightening his crown, regaining his composure. He even forced a smile. “Shall we all go back to the castle?”
“I . . . uh. I have to . . . uh.” My whole body was stiff. My mind was blank. All I could think was that I didn’t want to go anywhere with Crowhurst and his guards.
“Chores,” Blake said then, nodding toward the Temptation.
“We have to feed the dog,” Kashmir added smoothly. At the mention of food, Billie licked her chops.
“I see.” Crowhurst searched my face; was that doubt in his own? “Well. I suppose I’ll see you all later.”
I only nodded. Crowhurst led Dahut away, the guards falling in before and behind. The fishermen parted ranks around them, but the tension was still thick, and a small part of me wondered if we should have taken Crowhurst up on his offer of escort. I slid my hand into my pocket; the gun was still there, but it was useless in my hands. “Blake?”
“Miss Song?”
“Can you take this? Just in case?” I slipped the derringer out of my pocket; the silver barrel gleamed in the sunlight.
Reluctantly, he tucked it into his jacket. “What’s going on, Miss Song?”
“Let’s go to the ship,” I murmured, ushering the boys up the gangplank. As we ducked into the cabin, I cast one more glance toward Crowhurst as he crossed the wharf, only to find he was looking back over his shoulder at me.
Shuddering, I shut and locked the door behind us. Billie trotted up to the captain’s bunk, and Kashmir took a position near the port window to keep an eye on the fishermen. Blake stood in the center of the room. “Your mother told me I could find you on the ship,” he said with a frown. “She didn’t mention it would be Crowhurst’s ship.”
“It was a bit of a last-minute thing,” I said. “Dahut was trying to escape.”
“So you two stopped her?”
“Not exactly—well, yes,” I said. “But we actually have to help her.”
“Help her escape?” Blake’s look was incredulous. “I thought you wanted to stay. I thought you wanted to learn if it was possible to change the past.”
“I do—I did. But . . .” I bit my lip. “Not like this. Not from him.”
“Crowhurst steals her memories!” Kashmir abandoned his post at the porthole. “Makes her forget things. He’s not a good man!”
“What on earth do you mean, Mr. Firas?”
“Dahut told us she read something about it in her diary. Here.” I pulled the book from my pocket, flipping through. It was easy to find the page she had mentioned—the page where Crowhurst had written his version of the myth. The book folded oddly around the missing pages. I ran my finger down the cut edges. They were sliced very close to the spine, as though with a razor.
Or a very sharp knife.
My breath came faster as I remembered the king’s cut throat. No wonder Crowhurst had not seemed shocked to hear of the man’s death. But after Dahut’s revelation, it didn’t surprise me either. I ran my fingers over the page, trying to look past his version of the story to see what was underneath. Squinting, I tilted the diary toward the porthole, letting the wintery sunlight illuminate the indentations on the paper. “‘Father brought James to . . . the treasury?” I furrowed my brow. “Made him drink from . . . from the flask. . . . And now he . . . remembers nothing.’”
Blake shook his head, disbelieving. “You’re saying Crowhurst has some sort of elixir that takes away memories?”
“Lethe water,” I murmured, only half listening. “But who is James?”
Kash peered over my shoulder. “Wasn’t that the name in Crowhurst’s logbook, amira?”
“It was, wasn’t it?” Chewing my cheek, I handed him the diary and went to the desk. I’d put the logbook there, beside my father’s empty coffee cups. I found the page Kash had showed me last night. “King: James,” I read quietly. “I hold the king in c
heck.”
Blake was frowning. “Mr. Firas, didn’t you mention that the treasury was a pit beneath the castle?”
“Baleh,” Kash said, but I ignored them, paging back.
James has three days; on the fourth, the Friendship sails without him. A thought was forming in my head, a question bothering me. I studied the line, trying to listen to my softest thoughts past the sound of the waves on the seawall and the breeze in the lines. The words fell from my lips on a breath. “Gwen said there was a second man. And they left from the Port of London, in 1748.”
“A second man, Miss Song?”
“Crowhurst told me he was looking for other Navigators.” I swore. “The harbormaster even told me his name the first day I was here!”
“Whose name, amira?”
“Cook,” I said, stabbing the page with a finger. “James Cook. The man in the pit.”
“James Cook?” Blake’s eyes were round. “Captain James Cook?”
Kashmir frowned. “Was he the first European in America?”
“No, Hawaii,” I said softly. “That is, unless he ends up trapped in a dungeon on a mythical island.”
For a moment, all of us were quiet, but there was a sound in my ears, as though I was listening to the ocean in a seashell. The world seemed to crystallize—and was this feeling horror or awe? Cosmic chess indeed. If this was a game to him, Crowhurst was many moves ahead. Damn the man. I could not tell if I despised him more or less than I admired him.
“So Cook is a Navigator too, Miss Song?”
“I should have guessed. Crowhurst did guess.” The words were bitter in my mouth. Glaring at my father’s bookshelves, I found Cook’s biography and slammed it down on the desk. “Look at the history! He found the route to Australia and Hawaii when no one in Europe knew those places existed! He set out knowing they’d be there, and there they were. That’s what Navigation is!”
“But why would Crowhurst keep him here in Ker-Ys?”
“He wants to change the past, Kashmir! He wants to know whether or not he can prevent himself from setting out on his own journey.”
