Farlander (18 page)

‘Can we make their colours?’ the captain asked Dalas. The Corician’s waist-length dreadlocks writhed as he shook his head in the negative.

‘We’re too far out for it to be anything but an imperial – if not a merchanter, then a picket.’ Trench seemed to be talking to himself at first, but, as he scratched his pale face, he glanced up at Dalas. The big man folded his tattooed arms and shrugged.

They had gathered on the quarterdeck, next to the wheel, the highest level on of the ship. Nico shivered, his eyes watering from the constant scrub of the wind. Captain Trench took a sup from his goblet, smacked his lips. With his other hand, still holding the handkerchief, he caressed the smooth wood of the rail as though he was cleaning it of dust. He had built this vessel, Ash had said earlier, from a wreck that had been sold to him as salvage. It had taken his entire family fortune, and more, to convert it.

Trench paced four steps towards the stern rail, four steps back, scuffing the deck with his boots as he stopped.

‘The colours,’ he bellowed across to the lookout by the foredeck rail, one hand cupping his mouth. ‘Can you see the colours yet?’

‘Still too far, Captain,’ the lookout shouted back.

Trench tugged at his chin. He stared up at the envelope over their heads, the dying light painting it with intense luminosity. At this time of day, to a sharp set of eyes looking in their direction, it would stand out clearly for laqs.

‘Have they seen
us
, that’s the question we should be asking,’ Trench muttered as he watched the far sail.

For an instant, on the distant ship, it seemed as though the sun was rising again. A blinding yellow brilliance rose into the sky, to hang there for some moments in the gathering darkness. Beneath it the sea reflected the Sun’s light as a trembling, fiery disk. From the Mannian ship, a stark shadow fell long across the water.

Trench tossed the last of his wine into his mouth and flipped the empty goblet towards Berl. ‘Well, that settles it,’ he declared.

The flare descended slowly, the sea dimming in a shrinking circle as it fell. It landed in the water, burning up even as it sank: a strange, ghostly descent into the depths. Nico rubbed his eyes to clear away the after-images, then he opened them in time to see another flare climbing skywards on the eastern horizon. Meaning another ship was out there, still too distant to see.

‘A formation must be nearby,’ said Trench. ‘If they have any birds in the area, we’ll have the righteous bastards down on us before dawn.’

Nico shifted uneasily.

‘Be calm,’ Ash cautioned him, at his side. The old R
shun stood motionless, hands buried in his sleeves, observing the fading flare.

‘Orders, Captain?’ asked the man at the wheel, an old ragged-ear sailor.

‘Fire the tubes, Stones, and turn us west. Set us back on course when it’s gone full dark.’

‘Aye, Captain.’

Trench tilted his head back to take in the few evening stars appearing ‘Dalas, make sure the blackout is well enforced tonight, with inspections every quarter-watch. Anyone found breaking it is to be thrown into the bilge.’

Trench turned his back to the sky, his teeth shining in the dimness.

‘Thirsty work,’ he said to Ash. ‘Care to finish that bottle?’

*

Nico wasn’t inclined to return to the cold remnants of his dinner. He returned instead to his cabin, alone and fretful. For a long time he tried to sleep. The bunk seemed harder tonight. Through the decking immediately overhead, voices murmured: Trench and Ash talking, still drinking. Try as he might, he could not calm his mind. He kept thinking of the future – tomorrow and the day after that, the weeks, the months, the years ahead. Sleep was to be a sanctuary denied him.

After some hours Ash stumbled into the blackness of the room, reeking of wine. He grunted as he collapsed over his bunk. Nico watched his vague outline as he rolled on to his back.

Through the gloom he saw the old man grip a hand to his forehead. Ash was breathing deeply, as though that helped in some way. He fumbled in the inside pockets of his robe. At last he located the pouch that he always seemed to carry with him, and lifted one of the dulce leaves it contained to his mouth.

The old man chewed, breathing noisily through his nostrils.

‘Master Ash,’ Nico whispered towards his dark form.

For a moment he thought the farlander had not heard him. But then Ash made a clicking noise with his tongue, and said, ‘What?’

A dozen questions formed in Nico’s mind. They had talked only briefly about the R
shun order, of what he would be doing there, of the seals and how they worked. There was so much more that he desired to know.

Instead, he simply said, ‘I just wondered if you were all right, that’s all.’

There was no reply.

‘It’s just, I’ve noticed you using those dulce leaves a lot.’

When it came, the R
shun’s voice was stiff and restrained. ‘Headaches, that is all.’

Nico nodded, as though the gesture could be seen in the dark. ‘One of my grandfathers was the same,’ he said. ‘Not that he really was my grandfather. I just called him that. He died defending the Shield. I remember he took the leaves, too. When I asked him about it, he said it was because of his eyes. Because they were starting to fail him, and all the squinting made his head hurt.’

The bunk creaked, indicating that the old man had turned his back to him.

‘My eyes work fine,’ he muttered. ‘Go to sleep now, boy.’

Nico sighed, rolled on to his back to stare up into blackness. He knew that sleep was still far away.

Somewhere over his head, in the captain’s cabin, a pair of boots paced back and forth throughout the night.

CHAPTER SIX

By sunrise there were no more signs of sails. They had passed the imperial naval formations some time in the night, while Nico had tossed and turned in his hammock, or slept in brief intervals that were filled with unpleasant dreams. Ash had already risen when Nico finally awoke to an empty cabin, the early light fattening the open window as the horizon dipped within its frame. The ship was climbing.

He listened to the men’s talk in the busy gloom of the common room, as he held himself steady and bleary-eyed against the galley’s serving counter and piled buttered keesh and seedcakes on to a platter. The crew were in better spirits at having crossed the Mannian blockade in the night, and at least were no longer scowling at him. Still, there was a sense that it was not over yet.

Nico ate his fill, his body still craving the nutrition it had been starved of for over a year. As he took his time over a tarred-leather cup of chee, he thought of beggar’s broth, and wondered what Lena and the others he knew were doing back in the city. He even thought about his mother. Slowly, he began to properly waken.

He had barely finished his chee when he was startled by the most unexpected of sounds – a hunting horn calling out from the upper deck. The men froze and silence flooded the room.

The horn sounded again, with three high notes. Footfalls hammered across the planking overhead.

Instantly the men erupted into action with quick oaths and a general jostling towards the deck stairs or the cannon positioned along both sides of the wide room.

Sunlight flooded the low-ceilinged space as gun ports were opened up. Nico rose with panic in his chest. Amid the chaos, men outside shouted and heaved on ropes to pull the ends of the small guns out through the openings; a man shoved past him, not pausing to offer his pardon; others scurried for cartridges of blackpowder and cannon shot, or laboured with buckets of old nails, pebbles, coiled chains, forever cursing at people to get out of their way. A breeze played through the gun ports, dispersing the normally smoky atmosphere of the room, and carrying with it the sounds of snapping canvas and of the hull tubes burning fuel. Curiosity drew him towards one of the openings. With the ship still climbing, he shuffled across to the daylight, stopping himself with a palm laid against an overhead beam.

One of the sailors manning the gun poked his head out through the port. Nico leaned sideways until he could see past both man and gun.

A white speck, heading straight towards them.

‘Bird-o’-war,’ the sailor announced as he brought his head back inside and wiped his grim face.

Nico was possessed with a sudden urge to find Ash and to be at his side. He turned and hurried towards the steps. Berl was in front of him, loaded down with an armful of weapons.

‘Take one,’ the boy said, as they both climbed the steps.

Nico grabbed the first thing that came to hand, a stubby blade encased in a sheath six inches wide.

The weather deck was in bedlam. Sailors already armed with swords or axes were helping each other into tunics of leather armour. A group on the quarterdeck had set up three long-rifles on tripods by the starboard rail, next to the small swivel-mounted cannon. Others held bows, kneeling as they strung them. He could not see Ash anywhere.

Nico looked down to examine the weapon in his hand. Its handle was of simple wood, sanded smooth by use. He pulled it out of its sheath to reveal an ordinary meat cleaver. It felt ugly in his hand, weighted for a single brutal motion, and for a moment, when he thought of using this against another human being, he shuddered.

He kept it with him anyway as he made his way across to the other side of the deck, scurrying the last few feet as the ship leaned on its axis and tilted sideways. The starboard rail stopped him sliding further. A hard wind gathered his hair about his eyes.

To his right, up on the quarterdeck, Captain Trench peered through an eyeglass as he chatted to Dalas. His weariness seemed all but gone now, if not in the pallor of his skin or the soreness of his eyes, then at least in the way that he stood at ease, and how he spoke with decisiveness. The sun was rising behind the bird-of-war.

The skyship was approaching from starboard, but the
Falcon
was passing it on its north-westerly course. Nico shielded his eyes. Ahead of them, and further off to the east, another skyship was approaching on a course that would bring it across the
Falcon
’s path.

Like talons
, he thought,
closing their grip on us
.

‘Boy!’

He swung about. Through a parting in the scrum of men, he spotted Ash kneeling alone on the foredeck. The old R
shun beckoned him with a flick of his head.