The Deepest Ocean (Eden Series) (8 page)

And the shark, prowling the depths beneath her. Yerena closed her eyes and thought,
Come to me
.

She had been born in a village far inland and hadn’t tried swimming until she had been taken to Whetstone. That was not an optional skill for operatives, as—oddly—it was for sailors, and she had learned it quicker than she had learned to read. But it was also in Whetstone that she had first dreamed she was drowning.

The dream only came perhaps once or twice a year, and Yerena had learned to ignore it, especially since it didn’t interfere with her work. Other than waking her up in a sweat, which was hardly the kind of thing a Seawatch operative made a fuss about. It didn’t even scare her off swimming, since in the dream, she was somehow immobilized far beneath the water’s surface. As long as she could swim, there was no similarity between the dream and reality, so she wasn’t afraid of drowning while she kicked smoothly and parted the water with her hands.

She waited while the shark rose from the depths, and within seconds it carried her northeast. The glowing point in the distance grew to a firefly and then to the recognizable shape of a lantern on
Daystrider
’s stern, but the shark headed for the empty boat hauled behind the ship on a long dragline. Yerena thought keeping the shark at least eighty feet away from the ship was obedient enough to Captain Juell’s wishes.

She climbed aboard, letting the shark feel both her approval and the comfortable physical sensation as she relaxed on a thwart. Then she hauled the boat in, a final exertion that tired her out but helped to stop her shivering. Tightly sleeved to her wrists, her watersuit protected her from the shark’s abrasive hide and trapped water next to her skin. That water was supposed to be warmed by her body and to keep her warm in turn, but since it slowly lost heat to the ocean, she was covered in gooseflesh by the end of each swim.

Once she was back in her cabin, she stripped, wetted a cloth and scrubbed her body vigorously to clean off salt and grease. By then it was time for breakfast, and she had a good appetite. Afterwards she curled up in her bunk, giving in to the combination of exercise and a large meal, but she didn’t sleep for long. Taking her embroidery, she went up to the deck and watched the daily work on the ship.

She watched Captain Juell too, as discreetly as she could, and tried to evaluate the man on whom their lives depended—hers included, unfortunately. All her education and training hadn’t prepared her for close dealings with a man who had nothing of Seawatch in him, because no one in Seawatch would have been reckless enough to sail into the Strait of Mists.

The strait worried her more than she wanted to admit. Once they were in it, they would be wrapped in fog opaque as milk, sailing blind. The shark could detect any dangers beneath the water, but anything coming out of the fog at them would have the advantage of surprise.

By late afternoon the strait was in sight. Flint cliffs loomed up to the right, jagged slabs of rock that glistened blue-grey, and far to the south was the pale headland of the Dragon’s Tooth. The strait was only two miles wide, which made her feel they were passing through the eye of a needle, and which would have made the crossing dangerous enough without the fog. They were still a mile away, but already wispy tendrils spilled out, crawling over the surface of the sea like fingers reaching out towards
Daystrider
.

“Yerena?” Captain Juell said. “If you just can’t keep your eyes open, get a few hours’ sleep whenever you need it. I don’t want you killing yourself—not this early in our journey, anyway.”

Yerena wasn’t sure whether to be amused or indignant, and it only occurred to her a moment later that she should have been neither. She had to stop letting him coax a response from her, though thankfully she’d managed to keep her features as disciplined as they should have been.

She sat, half-closing her eyes and allowing herself to sense the shark’s presence while still being aware of what was happening around her.
Daystrider
’s twenty sails lifted and swelled to catch the wind, though the sounds of the men on deck were subdued. The fog seemed to muffle voices and thuds and creaks alike.

The shark slid smoothly into the strait’s chill waters and Yerena sank a little deeper into its senses. It was ahead of them, but its nostrils caught the effluvial trail the ship left in the water, carried to it on a current. Deeper yet and she would see through its eyes. As if from a distance, she registered the coldness of water vapor settling on her exposed face and hands.

The wind died.

The twenty sails above her head settled, hanging limp from their yardarms. The ship rocked slightly in the water, but it was as though a thick glass jar had been lowered over them.

Don’t be fanciful
.
Or afraid
. Captain Juell was already ordering the men below to oars, so they would be on the move again soon. Winds could die down at any time on the ocean.

None of the seabirds had followed them into the strait, and she told herself to be grateful there was no more risk of being splattered from above. The fog shrouded them, so thick she saw nothing beyond the gunwales, and the evening sky was gone as well. The night would reduce visibility further, and she pulled her cloak a little tighter around her.

“Yerena?” It was Captain Juell. “I want you by the helm.”

She rose and went over to the wheel, preparing to overlap her mind with the shark’s senses again. At least the fog could not penetrate the water. The helmsman’s knuckles were as pale as the mist where he clutched the wheel, and Captain Juell’s mouth was set tight. He had a spyglass in his belt, but it was about as useful as his longsword under those circumstances, and his right hand was clenched by his side.

“I’ll have coffee brought out for us soon,” he said to Yerena. “There’ll be no sleeping tonight.” He held out his hand to her, then opened it so she could see the compass on his palm. The needle rotated slowly about its axis, around and around and around.

Lastland had fallen.

It was a significant loss to Denalay, and Jash was glad that she’d lost so few men—not all the defenders had drunk the tainted water—but it was anticlimactic. The coralhost had done the work, and she was simply going through the motions of securing the prisoners and leaving the fortress in ruins. She ordered it put to the torch and hoped that would scorch what was left of the guardian in the Honeycomb as well.

By then
Masterless
had left for southern waters, lagging just behind Quenlin’s whales and the woman who’d volunteered to go with them—Clore Devoney, the cook on
Speared Lord
. That left Jash at loose ends. She commanded a flotilla that had come together for the purpose of battle, and if there were no battles to be fought, her captains would disperse, returning to their home isles. Only the possibility of another Denalait incursion held them together, but Jash thought that if the mainlanders’ spearhead was being aimed at the south again—which seemed unlikely—it was strange that only one warship’s presence had been reported to her.

Days passed with no word from Quenlin about anything out-of-the-ordinary his whales might have seen or heard, and her crew grew as restive as if the galley had been becalmed. Two galleys took their leave, sailing away from the blackened stones of Lastland.

The coralhost stayed, which didn’t help. News of Arvius’s death flew through the galleys, so the crew kept their distance from the coralhost and paired up on watch. Jash locked her door and window each night, feeling besieged in her own ship. The coralhost seemed not to notice the reaction it produced and made no hostile moves towards anyone, but its very existence was a threat, because when its brain budded again it would need another host. She wanted to keep it close until that time came, or until she had no more use for it.

The only difficulty would be killing it once it became too dangerous.

Jash devoted serious consideration to the matter. Since the coralhost no longer ate, it couldn’t be poisoned. It didn’t look strong in the way men did. The curves of muscles which had once been under its skin were shapeless and fluid, as though only the skin itself remembered its former shape, whereas everything beneath had changed. But the framework of bones showing here and there looked solid enough, and the eyes didn’t blink, much less sleep.

“The whales have reached the south,” Quenlin finally told her.

Jash nodded. It occurred to her that if
Masterless
and Clore had both been surprised and slaughtered by Denalaits, she would have no way of knowing unless Quenlin either told her of the failure or some loyal Turean happened to both witness the sight and travel north to warn her. Both seemed unlikely, so she had no choice but to trust him until she knew otherwise.

But when he came to see her the next day, he was smiling. “The whales heard your friend speak to people fishing off Arch Rock. The fisherfolk saw
Daystrider
go down in a storm.”

What?
Jash didn’t know who was lying. The Arch was far to the south, and any Denalait ships would have to pass by it on their way to Lastland—or, for that matter, to the rich pickings on Scorpitale. But for another ship to sink just as the armada had done, when she hadn’t even sacrificed for a storm? That was too fortunate. Too good to be true.

“Tell me exactly what they told Clore,” she said.

Quenlin obliged. A lookout stationed on the Arch’s highest point had seen a warship flying the circle, a warship struggling against one of the treacherous tropical storms. Pieces of the ship had floated up on their shores the next morning, enough wreckage for the island’s inhabitants to be certain the ship was destroyed. Captain Luliok had not yet heard the news, he told her, but the whales would intercept
Masterless
either that night or the next day, so they could leave Clore with the galley to report the news.

“Good,” Jash said. Luliok was no fool, and would see through the trick, especially when the whales turned immediately to start back for Lastland. “If I know him, he’ll make all speed to return here. He won’t want to miss it.”

The smile drained off Quenlin’s face. “Miss what?”

“Whatever the mainlanders are planning, of course. They wanted to draw our attention south for some reason, so they’re likely to try a strike of some kind elsewhere. Maybe here, because they don’t yet know that Lastland is ours.”

Quenlin looked skeptical. “You believe they let one of their own ships be destroyed for such a ruse?”

“Just a ship,” Jash said. “The Archfolk found wreckage. But no bodies.”

Chapter Four

Ghost in the Mist

Darok’s heart thudded. Or perhaps that was the beat of the oarmaster’s drum as the ship moved under the only means of propulsion it had left.
Daystrider
fielded two banks of oars, and it was better for the men to be belowdecks, where there was less fog. He loathed the vapors, thick as smoke but clammy damp, which wrapped the ship and stole in through the smallest crevice.

It was late into the night but he didn’t dare sleep. He stood at the helm instead, for all the good that did, since he could see nothing in the gloom. Yerena might have been dozing off with her eyes half-lidded like that, but when she spoke there was nothing drowsy about her voice. It was low and clear as a bell’s tone.

“There’s a wreck half a league ahead, off the port bow,” she said, and the helmsman gave a taut nod. “A cog…something split it in two.”

“Can you read its name?” Darok said.

“
Hope
.”

He grimaced. By then he was wishing he’d never so much as heard of the Strait of Mists, and although he’d ordered more lanterns lit—they hung from the yardarms like bright fruit—their light couldn’t penetrate the fog either.

The watches of the night passed one by one without incident, though. Yerena told him of another wreck, and an hour later the helmsman turned the wheel to take them past a jag of rock that jutted out from the flint cliffs. Darok began to think the worst was over. Surely no other ship had gone into the strait with the world’s deadliest pilot fish leading the way, and with every other means of navigation off the table, that might explain why no other ship had come out.

Might not explain why so many of them simply disappeared, though.

No one was interested in breakfast, so he had his steward bring coffee for him and Yerena. Even if that meant more trips to the head, they needed to stay alert.

“It’s been too easy so far,” she said as she took the ceramic mug he handed her.

Darok supposed things could always have been worse. At least they hadn’t sailed into a whirlpool or had to fight off a sea monster. The latest tale spreading belowdecks was that once ships sailed into the strait, they were entering a loop with no beginning and no end, and would be doomed to travel the strait until they rotted and fell apart. He told Yerena about that.

“We could leave something to mark where we were,” she said. “Like a buoy, or a crowclaw shot into the side of a cliff. Then, if we saw it again, we’d know we were sailing in circles.”

He smiled despite himself; she was so coolly rational in the face of fear. “I’m not going to bother. We’ll get through this just fine.”

For all his outward confidence, he was exhausted by the time night fell again, and there seemed to be little difference between the darkness and the constant twilight brought about by the fog. With the wind gone, a breath-held hush fell over the ship. On any other night, Alyster might have played his kithar—everyone in Darok’s family had a talent with some instrument, except him—but not in the strait. The fog would have swallowed up all songs. Or worse, echoed them.