Part 21 (2/2)

'That hatch should have been locked!' she retorted. 'What if he'd got to the void flies?'

'It was was locked. Evidently locked. Evidently someone someone got it open for him. Where did you say you were?' got it open for him. Where did you say you were?'

She looked at the floor. 'I've not been feeling well. The sea air . . .'

Maskelyne looked at her for a long moment. And then he sighed. 'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have snapped at you.' He took her and the child in his arms. 'G.o.ds, Lucille, I've never been so frightened.'

She began to sob. 'What's happening, Ethan? Is someone trying to hurt us?'

Maskelyne didn't say anything, but he had his own suspicions.

Granger hit the brine and plunged under it, and for an instant the world became a haze of brown and gold: sunlight rippling across the rooftops of the old Unmer dwellings down below; the Excelsior Excelsior's anchor chain; a shoal of marionette fish hanging in the deep like harvest festival baubles. His ears resounded with gloop gloop and and clang clang of sudden pressure change. of sudden pressure change.

And then the pain hit him.

His whole body burned. He felt as if his corneas were shrinking, his salted flesh crackling over an open flame. He ignored it and swam on towards the stern of the emperor's s.h.i.+p. Samarol bullets streaked by him, leaving short trails of bubbles before their own velocity tore them to shreds.

After a dozen strokes he realized that he was going into shock. A sense of panic and confusion overcame him. He fought against it, desperate to keep his muscles moving, desperate to reach that anchor chain now twenty paces ahead. Now fifteen. Ten.

Every nerve in his body cried out to him to stop. Strange thoughts whirled through his consciousness: The seawater was roasting him alive. He was swimming through the sun and it was not composed of fire but of molten gla.s.s. And now he could see that the gla.s.s formed the medium through which all thoughts and dreams pa.s.sed. A lens at the heart of the universe; it was the source and destination of all things. The eye of Creation. He realized that he could die here in peace, and that all would be well. The pain was leaving him now. All he had to do was accept the brine's embrace. The seawater was roasting him alive. He was swimming through the sun and it was not composed of fire but of molten gla.s.s. And now he could see that the gla.s.s formed the medium through which all thoughts and dreams pa.s.sed. A lens at the heart of the universe; it was the source and destination of all things. The eye of Creation. He realized that he could die here in peace, and that all would be well. The pain was leaving him now. All he had to do was accept the brine's embrace.

Yet some internal spark would not let him give up. He saw a vision of Ianthe, her face blurred by the waters, her black hair aflame, and it spurred him on. And suddenly the pain returned with horrific vigour, as if the lapse had been nothing but a sorcerous whisper, a Siren's call, and the Mare Lux had chosen to bare her teeth once more. He swam and swam through the gnawing brine and, as he crashed onwards through the limits of his own endurance, he bared his own teeth and grinned madly at the agony of it all.

He reached the anchor chain and pulled himself up, fist over fist, until he broke the surface of the waters and drew in a great shuddering breath.

The Excelsior Excelsior's copper-clad hull loomed over him, her port lifeboat snug against the bulwark, while higher still her yards cut across the Ethugran sky like lines of cirrus cloud. Hand over fist he pulled himself up the chain, teeth set, muscles screaming, his eyes burning like hot coals in his skull.

He reached the capstan hatch and slipped inside the s.h.i.+p.

Granger found himself in a dim corridor above the gun deck. A line of interior doors each bore Hu's Imperial crest: the dragon slain by a heavenly bolt of light. These looked like guest quarters. The bulk of Hu's crew had been ash.o.r.e to watch the trial, and there was n.o.body about. But he could not rest here. The brine on his skin felt like fire. It was changing him with every breath he took, steaming from his hands and forearms. If he was to survive he must first purge himself with fresh water. He opened the nearest door.

It was a small, cabin with a neat bunk, a gem lantern and a washbasin. Granger turned on the taps and bent over the washbasin. There was barely a trickle of water. He scooped the water into his eyes and face several times, until the stinging sensation faded. Then he blinked and looked down at his torso. His blood had already begun to crystallize in his wounds. He fought the urge to wash it away immediately lest he reopen those wounds. Instead, he washed the naked skin around them as best he could.

He didn't want to take too much time over this. The emperor's men might arrive any moment.

He located the anchor in the winch room three decks below the forecastle. It was too heavy to be raised by one man alone, so Granger lifted the brake and then turned the huge steel spool in the opposite direction, lowering the chain further into the sea. As the spool unwound, the weight of the chain itself began to drag the whole pulley mechanism around on its own. He kicked it to give it impetus, forcing the heavy line to unwind faster and faster. Finally it jarred to a halt. The end of the chain remained connected to the spool by a securing pin as thick as his thumb. Granger tried to kick it out, but it was welded in place and would not budge. He left it alone. The torque of the s.h.i.+p's engines should be more than enough to shear it when the time came.

His skin started to burn again.

Granger left the winch room and headed aft in the direction of the wheelhouse. He followed a companionway under the gun deck, pa.s.sing sail rooms, storerooms and a gunnery workshop. All were empty. The corridor opened into the crew quarters, a low chamber packed with rows of triple bunks. The pain in his flesh was starting to become intolerable again. He could feel his limbs begin to stiffen. When he spotted the door to the wash room, he hesitated, then ducked inside.

It was as large as four of the guest cabins back to back, but windowless and sour-smelling. A metalled floor sloped to a gutter channel along one end. The wooden walls were rotten and warped. An enormous barrel to which a ladle pan had been connected by a length of cord stood against the back wall under a dripping tap. Granger ran over and vaulted into the barrel itself.

Cold water immersed him. He submerged his head and then stood up again and washed his face, neck, torso, groin and finally his arms and legs. He shook his eyes clear of water, and then repeated the whole process. Even in this dim light he could see his skin had already been damaged by the Mare Lux seawater. Grey, leathery patches of sharkskin covered his arms like cracked paving, leaving raw red flesh between. Crystals had already formed over most of his wounds. They had staunched the flow of blood, but itched terribly and felt painful to the touch.

He climbed out of the barrel and stood there in the dark for a long moment, contemplating his disfigured flesh. He'd been too late to save himself completely, and the chances were good he might die yet. The flesh would either heal or harden further, restricting his movement. He sat down on the floor, trembling with exhaustion and fear, and felt something prod him in the side. It was the Unmer seeing knife, still tucked into the band of his breeches. He took it out and turned it over, but his sharkskin fingers could hardly feel it at all.

Sea mist rolled in from the south, blotting the sun until the skies around the Mistress Mistress turned from ochre to orange to a deep and angry red. Maskelyne ordered his sharpest lookout to the bow and ordered his engineers to set the dredger's engines to one-quarter speed. He climbed the ladder to the wheelhouse and took control of the vessel himself. Yet even from this high vantage point he could see little in the fiery gloom but the dim pink glow of the lookout's gem lantern and the red-brown slush of seawater coursing past to port and stern. The thin iron skeletons of the deck cranes drifted in and out of mist, while the turned from ochre to orange to a deep and angry red. Maskelyne ordered his sharpest lookout to the bow and ordered his engineers to set the dredger's engines to one-quarter speed. He climbed the ladder to the wheelhouse and took control of the vessel himself. Yet even from this high vantage point he could see little in the fiery gloom but the dim pink glow of the lookout's gem lantern and the red-brown slush of seawater coursing past to port and stern. The thin iron skeletons of the deck cranes drifted in and out of mist, while the Mistress Mistress's bathysphere squatted in its cradle in the centre of the deck like an enormous bra.s.s egg.

They were in the Border Waters, the confluence of the Mare Lux and Mare Regis. It was an area of unpredictable weather and vicious currents. s.h.i.+ps were apt to drift leagues away from their a.s.sumed positions. He'd heard rumours of reefs, too, shoals of copper sharks and wisp lights, and even great deepwater erokin samal capable of claiming entire crews with their searching tentacles. But the stories that troubled him the most were those of wandering deads.h.i.+ps.

He pulled a cord and blew the s.h.i.+p's foghorn. A deep, low blast reverberated through the mist. He did not expect to find another s.h.i.+p out here, but the sound rea.s.sured him nevertheless. It filled the sepulchral air with a sense of life.

He hadn't heard Lucille come in but turned at the sound of her voice.

'He's asleep,' she said. 'At least he was until a second ago.' She inclined her head towards the foghorn cord. She was dressed, like him, in deepwater gear. In her bulky whaleskins she looked pitifully small and fragile. She removed her goggles and took a moment to unwrap the silk scarf from her face. 'I asked one of Mellor's boys to watch over Jontney.'

'That scarf's not really necessary,' he said. 'These mists don't do much damage.'

'It's the word ”much” that concerns me in that sentence, Ethan.'

He smiled. 'Mist blisters heal. I'd still love you, even if you looked liked a sea monster.'

'And you'd love me no less if I didn't.' She stared ahead into the mist. 'Where are you taking us?'

'Losotans called it the Whispering Valley,' he said. 'Before the flood, I mean. Lots of old Unmer settlements down there.'

'So lots of treasure?'

'That's the idea.'

She shook her head. 'It's as thick as soup out there. Do you think Ianthe would be able to see through this?'

He said nothing, but kept his gaze on the crimson fog.

She nuzzled against him. 'This reminds me of Hattering.'

'The mists?'

'Well, apart from the mists,' she replied. 'And the boat. We were both dressed in whaleskins. I thought you looked quite das.h.i.+ng.'

He smiled 'Das.h.i.+ng? In whaleskins?'

'What was the name of that friend you were with? The naval officer?'

'William Temping.'

She nodded slowly. 'That's him. Whatever became of him?'

Maskelyne sniffed. 'I cut his throat.'

He felt her tense, just slightly. And then she moved away. 'I'd better go check on Jontney,' she said.

'He was a terrible fraud,' Maskelyne said. 'Did you know he even cheated on his wife? Some woman he kept in Losoto, apparently.'

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