Fata Morgana

by Thomas J. Radford

  Quill and Sharpe kept talking but Nel drowned out their words. Just meaningless noise in the background of the crowded room. Her fingers traced the words on skin, the pretty pictures, the names.

  Man couldn’t sign his own back, she recalled with half a smile. Had to get it stamped.

  Got fancier since then, he had it touched up. Wonder who he got to do that?

  Captain had been particular about who he let see the deed. Unorthodox though it was. Still legal though. Secure even. But at some point Horatio’s vanity or sense of grandiose had gotten to him.

  Added a fancy border. Calligraphied some of the lettering. Even put in a crest at the bottom there. His own damned seal and coat. Hells, Captain, ever the flair . . .

  But it wasn’t just the deed to the ship. It was Horatio’s will too. He’d left it to her, of course. Everything. Even the crew, listed by name in some cases. It wasn’t a gift. It was the responsibility. Or something near enough.

  Doesn’t mean nothing though. All gone now.

  There was a message from the captain to her, hidden between the lines of legal script. If you knew how to look.

  If you knew where to look, you could read too much into anything. Stars, flights of swallows, the cast of a throw of bones, or the remnants of tea leaves.

  There was a message waiting for Nel, and for once it wasn’t going to be found at the bottom of a mug or with her eyes to the sky. It was much plainer.

  Captain of the Tantamount, she thought. Never wanted that, begged him not to saddle me with it. Wouldn’t matter a damn to him that there is no Tantamount.

  Didn’t matter the first time either.

  This ship is as good as any other, Nel. It’s the crew that make her. Or near enough.

  Near enough.

  Hells, Captain.

  The deed to the Tantamount. A ship that no longer existed, and flayed from the skin of a captain who no longer walked among the living. They must have pulled his body in and found the deed after the battle. Why though? Maybe Nel was wrong, maybe it was done just to be cruel. Was hard to fathom another reason. In some ways it was just a horrific reminder.

  But then it was always meant to be, weren’t it? Right down to the wording.

  Her fingers drummed the table, close to but not touching the deed now. Nel’s eyes tracked her restless fingers, quickly shifting out of focus, then falling on the deed itself. Following the lines of the illuminated borders. Costly work. Maybe the captain had won a big game prior to this. Or maybe it simply explained where all his share of coin had gone.

  Sloppy work in that edge though, blobs of colour. Looks like someone spilled paint. Must have hurt like . . .

  Nel frowned, leaning forward.

  Staring.

  “Sonofa—”

  She stood upright, kicking the chair back.

  The other two jumped up with her. Sharpe wide-eyed and rushed, Quill immediately suspicious and cautious.

  “What?” the Kelpie demanded, casting about the room. “What is it? What happened?”

  “Look,” she pointed at the deed.

  “At what?” Quill peered, then met her eyes. “I do not see?”

  “Me neither,” Sharpe said.

  “It’s right there,” Nel pointed. Still the confused eyes.

  “This could be much simpler,” Quill grumbled. “You could, for example, simply tell us. I am not so familiar with this as you are. I do not see—”

  “Oh, for the ever-loving . . .” Nel turned around a moment, putting her back to them while she gathered herself. She pointed again. “There. That’s not meant to be there. That was never there.”

  Sharpe leaned over the table. He shook his head. “Just looks like scratch to me. Blobs of colour.”

  “Not blobs,” Nel told him.

  “No,” Quill frowned. “Flashes. Such as . . .”

  “Such as a ship might use,” Nel finished.

  “Trader code,” Quill observed. “Not the Alliance colour wash. The captain? A final message?”

  “Captain didn’t have that put in there,” Nel said. “Fact is, it looks . . .”

  “Fresh,” Quill finished for her. “The rest of the tattoo is faded.”

  Nel winced. “Aye.”

  “Someone added that?” Sharpe said. “You’re saying. After . . .”

  “After,” Nel confirmed.

  “Heathen gave that to me,” Sharpe said. “She was very sure to give it to me. I thought it was her way of twisting the knife.”

  “It may still be,” Quill muttered.

  “Not now, Quill,” Nel told him. For once the Kelpie held his tongue, though his face gave away what he was thinking.

  “What does it say?” Sharpe asked. “Never had the time to learn trader code properly.”

  “Says it plain and simple,” Nel said. “Three coloured dots, same as a signaller. Run through three of the borders, here and here, gives a location.”

  “And the fourth? I just see two dots. Blue and red. Didn’t think traders use blue.”

  “They don’t,” Quill confirmed. His eyes narrowed.

  “Alliance use it,” Nel said. “Blue and red just means boats return. Could be nothing.”

  “Or not,” Quill grumbled.

  “Meaning what?” Nel asked him.

  Quill ground his teeth, reluctant in coming forth. “The colours. Mixed together make . . .”

  “Purple,” Nel said.

  “Or violet,” Sharpe said. “Violet.”

  “Or . . . yes,” Nel agreed. She met Quill’s eyes. “It’s a stretch. Thinking this came from Vi.”

  “It did not.” Quill’s look was fierce.

  “I agree with Quill,” Sharpe said quietly. “This came from Heathen, if anyone. The deed and the message both.”

  “This place,” Quill traced the air above the other three borders with his finger, “I know it.”

  “Just like that?” Nel asked. “Don’t have to look at none of your fancy star paintings?”

  “It is a cold sun,” Quill told her, without, for the first time Nel could recall, any malice in his voice. “It is well known. The sun is cold, the mist is thin. The people are lawless. Ships do not go there.”

  “Sounds like,” Nel said, “at least one ship does go there.”

  There was silence around the table.

  “What a pity,” Quill said, staring at Nel, “that we do not ourselves have a ship.”

  “Worry about the ship later,” Nel told him. “First we get a crew. Stoker and the others, that’s what we focus on. Then we get a ship. Then we get Violet.”

  “We?” Quill asked. “There is a we in this now?”

  “Shut it, Quill. You’re already involving yourself so don’t go trying to drag tail now.”

  Quill snapped his teeth at her. Probably Kelpie for something. Nel didn’t pay it much mind.

  “What are you saying, Nel?” Sharpe asked.

  “The hells you think I’m saying, Sharpe? Said it yourself, Violet’s alive. Don’t care a damn about the rest, she’s alive, and you can take me to her then we’re getting her. Need a ship and a crew to do that. So let’s get a crew.” She scowled at the man. “And stop using my name. Making my damned hangover worse.”

  Quill chuckled at her rant. His hissing, rasping laugh.

  “And you, Loveland,” she pointed at her navigator. “Not. One. More. Word.”

  Quill chuckled. He did have one more word.

  “Finally.”

  “This bit here,” Sharpe tapped it with his finger, drawing glowers from both Nel and Quill. “That’s a Guild symbol. But this next to it, don’t know it. What’s it mean?”

  Nel told him.

  “It’s a shellback.”

  Chapter 5

  “FIRST OFFICER ARISTEIA Quinn,” Kaspar announced, stepping to the side and clasping his hands behind his back. “Ma’am, this is the captain’s associate.”

  Violet frowned at Kaspar’s words. Associate, so that was the way it was. Why then the warning abo
ut her first meeting with Kaspar and Gravel. And what Raines had said about when she came aboard the Tantamount.

  Not when you came aboard, when you were to say you came aboard.

  The woman with her back to Violet must be the first officer. The skipper. Aristeia, a woman no taller than Violet with severe cheekbones and greying blonde hair. Her uniform was cut to be sleeveless, a variation Violet had noticed amongst the crew. Temperatures were high inside the metal vessel. Aristeia’s showed off leanly muscled arms and red and raised tattoos.

  Aristeia Quinn, she knew that name. Stories told in the skipper’s voice were coming back to her: a hard woman, one who never questioned orders. One who never stopped to ask. In service to the same master and commander as Mors Coldstream, aboard this strange new ship.

  Aristeia spared a glance for Violet and Kaspar but didn’t otherwise turn from conferring with her officers on the bridge.

  A bridge unlike any aboard any ship Violet had ever been on. Fully enclosed, yet more metal and glittering with reflected light. Where her captain had kept his bridge manned by a bare handful there were a dozen uniformed sailors present. They occupied stations, work benches whose functions Violet could only guess at, arrays of levers and cranks, turn wheels and piping. Prisms covered numerous surfaces, not to provide illumination as she’d first thought, though they did that as well. But images danced over the highly polished surfaces, images that had to be coming from outside of the room.

  The first officer finally faced her, grim and in a mood. The woman had scars, more than Violet had seen on any one person. They formed patterns, what Violet had mistaken for tattoos. They weren’t the kind you got from being the normal rank and file.

  The gunner’s daughter.

  Everyone in the High Lanes had heard of Aristeia Quinn, of the Alliance. Not everyone knew her name, but all knew her reputation.

  The first to steer a ship through the Eye of the Needle, victor at the battle of Misty Bells and more. The woman was famous. And famously ruthless too. Sailed with a crew of hardened shellbacks, everyone handpicked. And everyone a killer.

  This woman, Violet thought, she would have scared the skipper herself.

  She did scare the skipper.

  She felt her knees go out under her, collapsing in a boneless heap on the floor. A hand on her arm, Gravel, cursing softly, hauled her up.

  “You’ve heard of me,” Aristeia observed.

  Struck dumb, Violet shook her head in an affirmative. She thought she might have collapsed again if not for the hands steadying her.

  She felt the woman’s eyes on her, threatening to break down whatever defences she might have left. She cleared her throat.

  “Leave us.”

  The bridge crew paused only a second before departing.

  “Ma’am?” Kaspar voiced an interrogative.

  “You two as well, Ensign.”

  “Ma’am,” Kaspar’s response was as crisp as his salute. Gravel squeezed her arm once before following his friend out the room. Leaving Violet alone. With her.

  “You are wondering,” the first officer said when the sound of the door being sealed receded, “I can see that. Your time in the black was disorientating. That is not uncommon.”

  Still mute, Violet nodded. She drew a shuddering breath.

  “Am I so terrifying to you, girl?”

  Violet meant to respond, but her voice came out a squeak. And that made her angry.

  “Good.” The first mate turned away, taking slow paces, not at all concerned about putting her back to Violet. “I’m pleased even the Guild can show proper deference. Raines is not the best ambassador for your organisation, invaluable though he is. Raines was also the one who insisted you be brought aboard. I was surprised you survived at all. But it means something to the man, and his goodwill means something to my superiors. A small price to pay. As one of his own, Raines has vouched for you, for your continued good behaviour, your parole, if you like. You understand the concept of parole.”

  “Aye,” Violet managed to say. “Aye, I do.”

  “Good,” the first mate repeated. “The ship you were placed upon, that was destroyed while attempting to flee from Port Border, she sailed as the Tantamount. It was originally known by another name, a name still recorded in the Ledger of the Deep. Are you aware of this name, girl?”

  “No,” Violet said, without even thinking. “No, ma’am,” she repeated, “I wasn’t.”

  A different name?

  Aristeia nodded. “There was no reason you should. Renaming a ship is not something to be done lightly. One cannot just blot out a name written in the Ledger. But Horatio Phelps did rename his ship, years ago. The Tantamount. Few ships know only one master like she did. What was your role aboard her?”

  Violet flinched at the sudden question. Ledger of the Deep? What the hells was that? Skipper never mentioned . . .

  “Cabin girl, ma’am.”

  “Why? For how long?”

  Violet knew not to answer the first question. “Not long, came aboard at Border. Half the crew was new hands. Ma’am.”

  Aristeia turned away from her then, clasping her hands behind her back. The raised scars were highly visible. The left arm bore the stencil of a bird in flight, the right had three slashes like claw marks.

  Violet looked away before she was caught staring.

  “As Raines said; your assistance in the pursuit was invaluable. We’ll speak more later, girl. Ensign!”

  Violet flinched at the sudden bark of command. Behind her a door opened, Kaspar appearing crisp and smart.

  “Ma’am?” he inquired with a salute.

  “Take the girl back to her quarters. She’s free to move around, provided she is accompanied at all times, with the usual restrictions. See to it.”

  “Aye, as you say.”

  Kaspar stepped up to her, steering her out of the bridge. The first mate faced away the whole time.

  “Kaspar,” Violet said when the door shut behind them.

  “Yes?” the young man asked her.

  “What happened . . . what happened to the Tantamount?”

  “She went down. With all hands still aboard her.”

  STRANGE AS THE Fata Morgana was it still boasted a galley. Sailors had to eat and the ship still had those.

  But on a ship without sails, are they still sailors then?

  It was her first look at the crew as a more cohesive whole. Unlike every other ship Violet had known, there was a communal space set aside for meals. Where other crew would lounge around the open decks or huddle below carousing in hammocks and amongst cargo, these were jostled together, cheek and jowl, in tight-fitted tables and benches. The seating was bolted to the deck floors, narrow and utilitarian, the ceiling low, and the walls spaced just far enough to accommodate and still let people pass through the aisles. Even a low buzz of conversation filled the room, bouncing and echoing off the metal walls.

  The cook gave her a wooden bowl, porridge and ship’s biscuits. People stared at her as she passed with her meal, then turned back to their own conversations. A curiosity, but not much more.

  Triple baked and twice that.

  The crew was a mix, lots of humans and Kelpies. But also Korrigans and Trolls. Men and women, though she still couldn’t tell with the Kelpies. A female Korrigan twisted to look at her, then whispered something to her neighbour. Laughter followed. Violet tried to ignore that but all she felt was small and alone. There was even a pair of Dunnies, the only folk she saw smaller than her. Barely two feet high and brown furred. Long horsey faces too. Or maybe it was her imagination. When she sat down she couldn’t find them again in the crowd. And apart from Kaspar and Gravel, everyone had significant years on her. Seasoned and grizzled and meaner for it.

  “GOES IN YOUR mouth, Miss Violet,” Gravel prompted her as she spent an age turning over one of the biscuits, staring at it listlessly. “Helps if you’ve got teeth but won’t do your teeth no help, as it is.”

  “Had hands,” Violet said.
>
  “What?”

  “Cook. Had hands, not hooks,” she said.

  “Why wouldn’t he have hands?” Gravel asked, exchanging a look with Kaspar. “More so, why would he have hooks?”

  “Alliance cooks have hooks for hands,” she told him. “Everyone knows that.”

  Another look. “That a thing?” Gravel asked Kaspar. “We ship out with the wrong fellow?”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” Kaspar said.

  “Except now I can’t help but think of some poor handless fellow wandering the docks looking for our ship.”

  Violet dunked a biscuit in the porridge. The gruel was thick, stood right up in the bowl. Biscuit stayed there.

  “Not hungry?” Kaspar asked her.

  Violet shook her head. She twisted around, looking at all the other diners. No one looked back at her, or if they did meet her eyes it was by accident and glowering followed.

  “What do they all do?” she asked quietly. She rubbed the palm of her hand, tattooed and calloused. Still scarred from rope burn too. “No ropes. No lines or sails to tend. What do they all do?”

  “Plenty,” Gravel told her, crumbs falling from his mouth as he dug into his own meal. “Still got winches, more of them in fact. That’s why you see so many knuckle draggers here. Why it takes so much to feed them too,” he waved as a murderous glare was directed his way. “All about gas and pressure. Lots of levers and gears involved. Things that go clank until they don’t.”

  “A lot of them are marines,” Kaspar said.

  Tell it to the marines.

  “Soldiers,” Violet nodded.

  “More soldier than sailor,” Kaspar agreed. “You look tired. I think we should take you back to your room.”

  Violet shrugged. It wasn’t even her room. Not really. So it didn’t matter.

  “Brandon, bring her bowl.” Kaspar rose to his feet, stepping out of the bench seating. “In case her appetite comes back. Don’t you eat it though.”

  Gravel held up his hands in denial. “Never crossed my mind, sir. Not for a moment.”

  “I don’t mind.” Violet pushed her bowl towards him, biscuits stacked on top. “Not hungry.”