‘What’s that?’ asked Catapillow, looking back at the boy.
‘The Captain’s needed on deck!’ said Ichabod in a loud, firm voice.
‘Yes! Yes!’ said Catapillow. ‘Let’s see where that vile, um, vile ship of Feverfew’s has got to. We can talk about your passage fee later, Arth. Follow me!’
He led the way back to the door. As soon as it opened, Arthur heard the deep roar of the sea, the groan of the ship’s timbers, and the continuing shouts of the crew and Sunscorch.
He had to shut his eyes as he left the room and stepped into the corridor because the floor of the ship was rocking but the room’s wasn’t, creating a very sick-making feeling at the back of his eyes. But it passed as soon as he was in the ship proper again, though the ship was pitching up and down so much he had to use a hand to steady himself every few paces.
It was bright out on the main deck. The moon was high above them, its light cool and strong. Arthur could even have read by it, he thought, and he noticed that it was strong enough to cast shadows.
He hugged his blanket tighter around his shoulders as he felt the wind. It had grown colder still, and stronger. Looking up at the masts, all the sails were full. The
Moth
was heeled over quite steeply to starboard and was plunging ahead at quite a rate.
Unfortunately, when he looked over his shoulder, Arthur saw that the pirate ship was sailing even faster. It was much smaller than the
Moth
, and narrower too, with only two masts and triangular sails rather than the square ones on the merchant vessel.
‘The ship looks white in the moonlight,’ said Arthur. ‘And are those sails brown?’
‘They’re the colour of dried blood,’ said Ichabod. ‘A shade called ‘vintage sanguinolent’ by tailors. The hull is supposedly made from a single piece of bone, that of a legendary monster from the Secondary Realms. Feverfew himself is said to be a pirate from the Realms, once mortal, who mastered the darker depths of House Sorcery and is now half-Nithling, half —’ ‘That will . . . that will do, thank you, Ichabod,’ said Catapillow nervously. ‘Come with me.’
He led the way up to the quarterdeck, where two Denizens wrestled with the wheel, and Sunscorch shouted orders at the Denizens aloft and on the deck, trimming sails and yards. There were two other Denizens there as well. One stood next to Sunscorch, nodding sagely at every order but saying nothing. He looked rather like Captain Catapillow, with a bland face and similar clothes, so was clearly an officer. Probably the First Mate, Arthur thought. The one who used to be the Chief Clerk in the counting house.
The other Denizen was completely different. He was crouched on the deck next to the wheel. A strange, small figure not much taller than Arthur, he was almost completely lost inside a voluminous yellow greatcoat with rolled-up cuffs. He was bald and his face and head were completely covered in small, colourful tattoos that Arthur realised after a moment were animated, moving and shifting around. Tattoos of ships and sea creatures, birds and clouds, maps and moons and stars and suns and planets.
‘Mister Concort, who is First Mate,’ whispered Ichabod, pointing to the Denizen next to Sunscorch. ‘And Doctor Scamandros, our most accomplished sorcerer and navigator. He’s casting the haruspices to see where we might be able to go. No one must interrupt, take note. Dreadful things would happen.’
At that moment, a gust of wind hit the
Moth
hard and she heeled over even farther. As everyone on the quarterdeck scrambled to keep their footing, Arthur stumbled against Captain Catapillow, and both of them ended up sliding across the deck and into the rail.
Arthur almost went over, into the dark sea that was surprisingly close below. He managed to save himself and, at the last second, his blanket, but at the cost of a jolt to his broken leg that sent a savage, stabbing pain up his side and into his head.
As the ship righted itself in response to Sunscorch’s shouted commands, Arthur noticed that almost everybody else had ended up on the starboard rail, apart from the two helmsmen clinging to the wheel, Sunscorch next to them, and Doctor Scamandros to the side. He was still crouched where he’d been, as if he were glued to the deck. All the things he was studying were also still there, which seemed impossible. Several maps were laid out on the deck, with a pair of gilt-bronze dividers on top, a ruler, and the skull of a small animal that had been converted into a cup to hold a dozen or so pencils.
There were also lots of small pieces of coloured cardboard strewn apparently at random next to the map. Doctor Scamandros was studying them and whistling through his front teeth. After a few seconds, he gathered them up into his cupped hands and threw them down again. To Arthur’s surprise, they joined together as they fell, and he realised they were jigsaw pieces. When they hit the deck, nearly all of them had joined, but two or three pieces remained separate. The jigsaw was incomplete.
Doctor Scamandros stopped whistling and the wind, as if in response, eased a little. The Denizen gathered the jigsaw pieces together again and put them in a cardboard box that had a picture of a sheep on it, which he then put inside his yellow greatcoat. After this was done, he stood up. This was obviously the point at which he could be interrupted, because Catapillow and Concort rushed over to him.
‘What are the signs, Doctor?’ asked Catapillow. ‘Is there a course out of here?’
‘No,’ said Scamandros. His voice was very high and pure, and reminded Arthur strangely of a trumpet. ‘There is some power interfering with both the goat and sheep auguries. I dare not try the ox in such circumstances. Without guidance, I can find no true course.’
‘Is it Feverfew?’ asked Sunscorch. ‘Even so far away?’
‘No,’ said Scamandros. He had caught sight of Arthur for the first time, and his dark eyes were staring straight at the boy. ‘It is much closer. Who is that?’
‘Arth,’ said Sunscorch. ‘A mortal boy. We picked him up with Feverfew’s treasure.’
‘He holds an object of great power,’ said Doctor Scamandros, excitement in his voice. He rummaged inside his coat and pulled out a pair of glasses with gold wire rims and thick smoked-quartz lenses, which he slipped onto his forehead, not over his eyes. ‘Bring him here.’
Arthur stepped forward of his own accord and staggered across the deck. Sunscorch caught him and held him, loosely enough for the grip to be either a friend helping out or a guard about to secure a prisoner.
‘What is in your pocket, boy?’ asked Doctor Scamandros. ‘It is interfering with my augury and, thus, my navigation of this ship.’
‘It’s . . . it’s a book,’ said Arthur. ‘It won’t be of any use to you.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that!’ Scamandros exclaimed. He reached forward to Arthur’s pocket, and Sunscorch tightened his grip on the boy’s arms. ‘What have we —’ As he touched the top of the Atlas, there was a loud report, like a pistol shot. Scamandros’s hand came back so quickly Arthur didn’t even see it, and then the navigator was hopping around the deck with his fingers thrust into his armpit, screeching, ‘Ow! Ow! Ow! Throw him overboard!’
Sunscorch hesitated, then picked up Arthur in a bear hug and tottered to the starboard rail, crashing into it with considerable force.
‘Sorry, lad,’ he said as he lifted Arthur up and prepared to heave him into the waiting sea. ‘We need the Doctor.’
‘NO! ’ SCREAMED ARTHUR. Then, as Sunscorch continued to lift him up, ‘I’m a friend of the Mariner! Captain Tom Shelvocke!’
Sunscorch lowered Arthur to the deck.
‘Prove it,’ he said coldly. ‘If you’re lying, I’ll carve you a set of gills before I throw you over.’
Arthur reached with a shivering hand into his pyjama top and pulled out his makeshift floss-chain. For a dreadful moment he thought the disc was gone, then it slid free and hung on his chest.
‘What are you waiting for, Sunscorch?’ yelled Doctor Scamandros angrily. ‘Throw him overboard!’
Sunscorch looked closely at the disc, flipped it with his finger, and looked at the other side. Then he sighed and let go of Arthur. Just then, the ship rolled to port and back again, almost sending Arthur over the side anyway.
‘Do as the Doctor says, Mister Sunscorch!’ called Catapillow. ‘We must have a course to get away!’
‘I can’t, Captain!’ shouted Sunscorch. ‘The boy has the mark of the Mariner. If he asks for aid, as sailors we must give it.’
‘I
am
asking,’ said Arthur hastily. ‘I don’t want to be thrown overboard. I only want to send a message to the Lower House. Or the Far Reaches.’
‘He has the what? The who?’ asked Catapillow.
Sunscorch sighed again and helped Arthur along the sloping deck to the group gathered around the wheel. Doctor Scamandros still had his hand under his arm. He scowled at Arthur.
‘No seaman will go against the Mariner,’ said Sunscorch. ‘The boy has the Mariner’s medal, so you’ll have to figure something else out, Doc. He ain’t going over the side.’
‘The Mariner,’ said Scamandros. ‘A figure of reverence for the nautically inclined. One of the Old One’s sons, I believe?’
‘Yes,’ said Arthur, though the question hadn’t been asked of him. ‘And the Architect’s.’
‘Perhaps I was a little hasty,’ Scamandros continued. ‘I thought perhaps you had something in your pocket we wouldn’t want aboard. But any friend of the Mariner . . . please do accept my apology.’
‘Sure,’ said Arthur. ‘No problem.’
‘Well, ah, welcome aboard,’ said the Captain. ‘We’re delighted to have you here. Though I fear that our voyage is, um, about to be cut short.’
Everyone looked back over the stern. The
Shiver
had closed in, and was now less than a mile away.
‘She’ll be firing her bowchasers soon,’ said Sunscorch. ‘If they’ve any powder. They’ve the weather gauge too. We’ll have to fight it out.’
‘Oh,’ said Concort. He swallowed and frowned at the same time. ‘That doesn’t sound very good.’
‘Can you get us a better wind, Doctor?’ asked Sunscorch. ‘Untie one of your knots?’
‘No,’ replied Scamandros. ‘Feverfew is already working the wind, and his workings are stronger. There is no escape within the Border Sea.’
‘And is there, er, no plausible course out to the Realms?’ Catapillow pulled his sword partly out of its scabbard as he spoke, and almost cut his nervous fingers on the exposed blade.
‘There is one possibility that I may have overlooked due to extreme pain in my hand,’ said Scamandros. ‘I cannot cast the haruspices because of magical interference. But the young have natural ability, so this boy may be able to. Can you read portents of the future in the strewn intestines of animals, young sir?’
‘No,’ said Arthur with a grimace of revulsion. ‘That sounds disgusting!’
‘They don’t use actual intestines anymore,’ whispered Ichabod. ‘Just magical jigsaw puzzles of intestines.’
‘Indeed, the art has grown more orderly and less troublesome for the laundry,’ said Scamandros, who clearly had very superior hearing. ‘Though personally I believe it is best to be trained the old way, before coming to the puzzles. So you are not a haruspex or seer?’
‘No . . .’
‘Then you shall cast the pieces and I will read them.’ Scamandros took a large box out from under his coat — bigger than the one he’d put away before — and handed it to Arthur. There was a picture of an ox on the box, the back half cross-sectioned to show its innards. ‘Quickly now. Take the box and empty the pieces into your hands.’
As Arthur opened the box, something shrieked overhead. It sounded like a cross between a train whistle and a terrified parrot. Sunscorch looked up, then muttered, ‘They’ve got powder! That’s a ranging shot!’ and started to shout more commands to the helmsman and crew. The
Moth
lumbered and rolled to port as the wheel spun and the crew hauled on lines to trim the yards (the horizontal spars on the mast that the sails were attached to).
Arthur knelt down on the deck and put his hands in the box. Though all he could see were pieces of coloured cardboard, he recoiled as he touched them.
‘Ugh! They feel like raw mince or . . . or worse!’
‘Ignore that!’ instructed Scamandros. ‘Pick them up and cast them on the deck! Quickly now!’
Arthur shuddered and hesitated. Then he heard the whistling again, and a huge plume of water exploded just behind the
Moth
, showering them all with freezing water.
‘Over and under,’ said Sunscorch grimly. ‘They’ll have the range inside a minute.’
Arthur took a deep breath and plunged his hands into the box. Picking up the pieces was like picking up handfuls of dead worms. But he got them all, raised them up, and threw them at Scamandros’s feet.
As before, the jigsaw came together as it fell. But this time all the pieces joined to make a perfect rectangle. The colours ran and shimmered like spilled paint, then formed into lines and patterns. In a few seconds, a picture appeared. A picture of a rocky island, a mound of tumbled yellow stones, surrounded by a sea of curious colour, more violet than blue.
Scamandros looked at the picture, muttering to himself, then he rolled up the chart at his feet and immediately unrolled it again, revealing a completely different map.
‘Forlorn Island, Sea of Yazer, on the planet we call Gerain,’ said Scamandros. ‘That’ll do!’
‘Err, Mister Concort . . .’ said Catapillow.
‘Ah, Mister Sunscorch . . .’ said Concort.
‘Prepare to Cross the Line!’ roared Sunscorch. ‘Idlers take a hold!’
Catapillow and Concort rushed to the rail and gripped it. Sunscorch joined the two Denizens on the wheel. Scamandros picked up the jigsaw, which didn’t fall apart, and stood by them.
‘Grab hold of a rope or the rail,’ Ichabod instructed Arthur. ‘When the Doctor shouts, look down and close your eyes. And whatever you do, don’t let go!’
Arthur did as he was told, taking a firm grip on the portside rail. He looked back at Doctor Scamandros, who was holding the jigsaw and muttering to himself, with occasional instructions to Sunscorch.
‘Port five, steady,’ he said. ‘Starboard ten and back again amidships, hold her as she goes, port five, port five, starboard ten . . .’