Drowned Ammet

by Diana Wynne Jones

  “The boys were worse,” Ynen said feelingly. “They had such a good opinion of themselves under the obedience.”

  “Like the uncles,” said Hildy. “I don’t think Uncle Harl ever did anything but crawl to Grandfather while he was alive and go around looking smug and being boring. But when Grandfather got shot, Uncle Harl got drunk to celebrate. It made me feel awful. And I will say this for Father—he wasn’t like that.”

  “Then what was—is he like?” Ynen asked resentfully. “You got more sense out of a fish on a slab!”

  “Except fish don’t make jokes at your expense,” Hildy added.

  “Ah, now I’ve had quite a bit of dealings with fish, on slabs and off,” Mitt said. “Sad look, they often have. And speaking as an authority, as you might say, I get to feel quite sorry for your pa, hearing you talk. Happy family, weren’t you?”

  “Sorry for him!” said Hildy.

  “I know. That’s a fine thing, coming from me, isn’t it?” said Mitt. “But as far as I can see, he’s not let do anything, except maybe play soldiers or go out for a shoot now and again. All he’s let do is sit about in the happy family and take orders, and since he’s not booked to be Earl or anything, he’ll be doing that till he dies. Not much of a life, is it? On a slab, you might say, until he’s under one.”

  Hildy and Ynen sat digesting this unusual view of their father for some time. Even then, all Ynen could think of to say was, “Well, I don’t know,” which he said very dubiously indeed. They seemed so perplexed that Mitt tried to cheer them up by telling them stories from the time he used to fish with Siriol and how he used to sell the fish. He amused Hildy and Ynen mightily. Hildy nearly rolled overboard laughing, and Ynen doubled up over the tiller. But this led to another difficult moment.

  Ynen straightened up, tenderly shifted Wind’s Road a point or so, and asked: “Is Siriol a Free Holander? He seems to have been very kind to you.”

  “Yes.” Mitt went to pick at a blister the storm had raised on the cabin paint. He caught Ynen’s eye and stopped, trying to grin. The puzzled, serious look he was growing to dread was settling on Ynen’s face. “All right. He was one of them that informed,” Mitt said. “Only don’t start asking things again! I tell you straight I don’t know how I feel about him. So he was good to me. So I didn’t want to go near him after the bomb, for fear I brought the soldiers on him. That’s all I know.”

  Ynen’s mouth opened to ask another question. Hildy saw Mitt’s face had gone elderly. She nudged Ynen and hastily got out the pies. The survivor from Sevenfold II was still asleep, so Hildy left a rather withered steak pie between his face and the cabin wall. When she came out into the well again, Mitt was still elderly, and she could tell from Ynen’s face that he was going to ask more questions any minute.

  Hildy began to talk brightly about the Holy Islands. She was not sure why she did, except that it was clear to her that Mitt’s feelings were in a most painful muddle, and she knew a little how that felt. Perhaps the Holy Islands was not a good choice of subject. Hildy’s feelings about them and about Lithar were in as bad a muddle as Mitt’s about the Free Holanders. Because of this, and because she was so anxious to keep off Mitt’s feelings, Hildy began to boast. All through the long afternoon, while Wind’s Road ruckled her way gently through small blue waves, Hildy sat on the cabin roof and boasted about Lithar’s famous fleet and the beauty and the strangeness of the Holy Islands. She told Mitt about the magic Bull, the mysterious piping, and the old man of the sea and his horses. She told him the Holy Islands were the most favored place in Dalemark. Before long, she began to feel that she was indeed extremely lucky to be going there, and she told Mitt all over again about the fame and beauty of the Holy Islands, in even more glowing terms.

  On the third repetition Mitt felt he had had enough. “All right,” he said. “You were so lucky to be betrothed, you ran away the first opportunity. So stop swanking.”

  “Yes, do stop, Hildy,” said Ynen, who was as bored as Mitt.

  Hildy was furious. “Why should I?”

  Ynen looked at her whitening face and did not answer. Mitt could see Hildy was angry, too, but he did not see that was any reason for holding his tongue. “Because you said three times,” he said, “that you’re going to be Holy Hildrida. You’re going to ride about on a bull, blowing a little whistle and hopping from island to island, granting everyone wishes. Now tell us how poor old Lithar feels about it. Pretty sick, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  Hildy stood up on the cabin, so blazing white that Ynen winced. How dared Mitt make fun of her! She had only been trying to help him, too! And he repaid her like the street boy he was. She was so angry that she wondered whether to jump down on him where he sat in the well and hurt him as much as she could. Mitt grinned up at her, not in the least dismayed. Hildy realized he was probably stronger than she was. “You,” she said, “are just a horrible little murderer, and don’t you forget it!” She turned on her seaboot and stalked to the bows of the boat.

  Mitt saw he had gone too far. He was sorry at first. Then, as Hildy continued to sit, white and blazing, looking out over Old Ammet, he became resentful. “Give me the tiller,” he said to Ynen. “You need a rest, anyway. And go and tell that sister of yours to jump in.”

  Ynen took Hildy a pie instead. She refused to speak to him. He took a pie to the man from Sevenfold II. The man had not eaten the first pie. Ynen was just going away when the man roused a little. When Ynen asked if he wanted a pie, he growled. The only word Ynen heard was “guvnor.” He leaned over, rather nervously, and asked the man his name. The man growled to call him Al, guvnor. Then he reached out and snatched the pie Ynen was just taking away again. Ynen retreated to the well, feeling he was the only good-tempered person aboard.

  “He’s horribly hard to get on with,” he said to Mitt.

  “He’s a right brute,” Mitt agreed. “Mind you, he may be better tomorrow.”

  They settled the watches for the night, with Ynen having to run back and forward between Mitt and Hildy because Hildy would not speak to Mitt. Mitt took the dawn watch. He wanted to be on hand in case they reached land then.

  But by morning there was still no sign of land. The wind was brisker, and the day promised to be clear. Mitt leaned against the side of the well, with his foot up on the seat, humming a tune and feeling fresher and calmer than he had felt for years. He wondered what he would do when he reached the North. Go back to fishing, he supposed, or get work on a farm. But he was sure there were a hundred other things, as yet unthought of, which he could do quite as well.

  He was so cheerful and confident that he was really hurt when Hildy came out of the cabin and pushed past him without a word. “What am I supposed to have done—bar teased you a bit?” he demanded.

  “And why should I put up with that?” asked Hildy. “It’s not your place to criticize me.”

  “Oh, go and get a nice long drink of arris!” Mitt said disgustedly.

  Hildy was looking at him, uncertain whether to laugh or fly at his throat, when Wind’s Road vibrated to a string of swearwords. Hildy had never heard the like. Even Mitt had seldom heard so many at once. Al stuck his head out of the cabin and gave Mitt a bloodshot look.

  “Isn’t there a razor in this godforsaken tub?”

  “There may be,” said Hildy. “The sailors often leave things. I’ll look.”

  “I didn’t mean you, little lady. I meant him,” said Al. “Let him look.”

  “I’m steering,” said Mitt. “And I don’t know where to look.”

  Al gave him another bloodshot look. “Then she’d better do it,” he said, and went inside again. Hildy followed him, and found a razor. Mitt stood outside, scowling, hearing things like, “It’ll be none the worse for a bit of sharpening, little lady,” and the sound of Hildy stropping the razor. “This is all the soap you have, is it? Thank you, little lady, much obliged, but a man needs a bit of hot water to shave with.” That meant Hildy had to get the charcoal stove alight, draw water, set it t
o boil, and work away at the stove bellows. Mitt watched her working away with a set, cross look on her face, while Al sat at his ease on the bunk, and wished they had left that boat to rot.

  When Ynen came out, he was wishing the same, though all he said was “No land yet?”

  All Mitt said was “No. I reckon that storm blew us a good long way out.” But he could see Ynen knew how he felt.

  Al emerged from the cabin at last, rubbing his smooth chin and looking satisfied. He climbed on the cabin roof and stretched. He was square and stocky. His face, now they could see it properly, was square, too, and unremarkable except for some bitter creases round the mouth and a general look of being well pleased with itself. His clothes, in spite of being faded and creased by the sea, were better than Mitt had realized, and he had a well-nourished look that made Mitt think he must have been mate or perhaps bosun on Sevenfold II.

  “What are you staring at?” Al demanded. Hildy was looking at him resentfully. Ynen was puzzled because he had a feeling he had seen Al before somewhere. Al laughed and looked round Wind’s Road. “Lucky ship, eh?” he said, nodding from Old Ammet to the little Libby Beer. Then he nodded at Mitt. “Hand that tiller over, and let’s have something to eat.”

  “I’ll do it,” Ynen said, opening the locker where the second sack of pies still lay untouched.

  “Don’t you, guvnor,” said Al. “Let him.”

  “It’s still Mitt’s watch,” said Ynen.

  “Yes, but it’s his station,” said Al. “It’s not your place to cook.”

  “Nobody’s cooking,” said Mitt. “And what do you take me for?”

  Al shrugged his wide shoulders. “Servant. Bodyguard, by the look of that gun you got there.”

  Mitt looked down in annoyance, wishing he had buttoned his coat over Hobin’s gun. “I’m no servant,” he said.

  “Don’t tell me!” Al said, laughing loudly. “I suppose you come aboard and held the guvnor and the little lady up at gunpoint!”

  Mitt could not look at anyone. Hildy seized the sack out of Ynen’s hands and dumped it on the cabin roof. “Help yourself,” she said. “That’s what everybody else is doing on this boat.”

  “Thank you kindly, little lady,” said Al. “After you. After the guvnor.” He would not touch a pie until Hildy and Ynen had each taken one. Then he took one himself, remarking that Mitt could eat when he came off duty. Ynen promptly passed Mitt his own pie and took another. But Al was clearly not a man to pick up hints. He waved a piece of oyster patty at Ynen and asked with his mouth full, “And where, may one ask, is this boat bound, guvnor?”

  They munched in uneasy silence. They all realized that they had forgotten to invent a story to tell him. “Kinghaven,” Ynen said at last, in a haughty way he hoped would shut Al up.

  Al ducked his head respectfully. “Sorry I spoke. Sorry I spoke, guvnor. Never wish to offend the gently born. Friends in the North, have you? Not many Holanders could say the same. I mean, I know you’ll pardon me for mentioning it, but I can see this boat’s from Holand by the images back and front. Not a deep-water boat, either, is she? Pleasure vessel, more like.”

  Hildy drew herself up, as her aunts did when they were displeased. “Yours was hardly even that, was it?”

  Al shut his eyes and muttered things. “Oh, it was horrible! Filthy little tub. Never been so seasick in my life!” That surprised them, in a sailor, but Al’s other remarks had so alarmed them that they all tried to look sympathetic. Al grinned. “I lay down in the bottom and let it all happen. Only thing I knew how to do. That was after I lost my gun. Damned wave took it off me. I regret that gun. It was as good as the one you got there.” Mitt found Al’s eyes open again, staring at Hobin’s gun in his belt. “Mind if I have a look?” said Al.

  “Sorry,” said Mitt. “It’s got sentimental value. I never let anyone else touch it.”

  “Fair enough,” said Al, to Mitt’s considerable relief.

  Mitt finished his pie, handed the tiller to Hildy, and retired to the cabin, sick of Al already and hoping heartily that it would not prove far now to Kinghaven. They must all make sure to give Al the slip there. Mitt did not trust Al. He disliked his elaborate deference to Hildy and Ynen, his plain intention of not doing a hand’s turn, and, above all, his smug and prying manner.

  Above him, Mitt could hear Al asking if they had anything to eat but pies. He added discontentedly that it seemed rather a rich diet. Yes, let’s have you seasick again, Mitt thought, and went up the cabin to the rosy bucket.

  When he came out, Al’s voice was in the well, saying, “Oh, no offense, little lady. It’s not my place to question the provisions. I just thought you could get that lazy boy to catch a few fish now and then. His kind get above themselves if they’re let stay idle.”

  “You can fish if you want,” Ynen said. “We don’t want you idle either.”

  “That’s right, guvnor,” Al agreed heartily. “I’ll go and set him to it, shall I?”

  There was a frustrated silence in the well. Al bent down and entered the cabin. Mitt braced himself against the remaining half of the cupboard door, ready to whisk past Al and out on deck. Al would soon find Mitt was nobody’s servant. Al advanced. Mitt waited his moment and shot forward. But instead of sliding by under Al’s elbow, Mitt found himself hurtling into Al’s solid body and grunting with the impact. He was seized in a punishingly strong grip. Al laughed in his ear. “No, you don’t!”

  Nothing like this had happened to Mitt for years. He was as humiliated as he was angry. He struggled hard. They bashed against the cupboard, a bunk, and the cupboard again. “Let go of me!” panted Mitt as they bounced against the gilded door.

  Al, by this time, had both Mitt’s hands helpless under one brawny arm. “Right you are,” he said. He plucked the gun out of Mitt’s belt and let go of Mitt the same instant. Mitt was flung against the bunk again.

  “How dare you!” said Hildy.

  “Give that back, please,” said Ynen.

  Both of them had come into the cabin, too, which explained why Wind’s Road was tipping about so, Mitt realized, as he was rolled onto the floor.

  Al raised the gun. “You see to the boat, guvnor,” he said, and walked toward the cabin door. Ynen, Hildy, and Mitt, too, backed out in front of him in a dismayed cluster, treading on one another along the tipping floor. Ynen seized the tiller and set Wind’s Road to rights again, while the other two crammed themselves beside him, as far as they could get from Al in the cabin doorway.

  “That’s right,” said Al. “Now this is much more comfortable. I didn’t feel safe with this gun where it was. Went off once already, didn’t it?” he said, pointing to the splintered groove beside the well. He turned the gun over admiringly. “Where did you pinch this?” he asked Mitt. “This is one of Hobin’s—one of his specials.”

  Mitt set his face sullenly. He was not going to discuss Hobin with Al.

  “Well, it’s in good hands now,” Al remarked. “Five shots in it. Got any more?”

  “No,” said Mitt.

  In rippling, rope-creaking silence, Al swung himself up to sit facing them on the cabin roof, with his legs dangling and the gun laid across one knee. Mitt watched his square, smug face and was almost shamed enough to cry. He knew he was having a very vivid experience of exactly how Ynen and Hildy felt when he first came out of the cabin himself, and it made him feel sick. It seemed hard on Ynen and Hildy to be having it again.

  “Now let’s make sure we understand one another,” Al said comfortably. “I’ve been having a good deal of trouble lately, and it’s made me nervous. I don’t want any more, understand—guvnor? Little lady? You?”

  “The name’s Mitt,” said Mitt. “What trouble?”

  “I’ll tell you,” said Al, “so you won’t get any wrong ideas about me. I’m a marksman. Best shot in the South—so do remember I don’t want more trouble, won’t you? That’s why I’d rather be on the right end of this gun—nothing personal. As for the trouble, I had the good fortune t
o be employed by a noble gentleman in Holand—well, let’s call him Harl, shall we?—to take one of my best shots at a certain Earl—let’s call him Hadd, not to beat around the bush—”

  Hildy’s eyes and Ynen’s slid sideways to each other. Wind’s Road veered. Mitt had to nudge Ynen before he realized. Mitt felt nearly as bad himself, and the nature of the badness dragged his face elderly again.

  “And I did,” Al said earnestly. “It was as sweet a shot as you ever saw and dropped Hadd like a stone. But then the trouble started because I had to get away, hadn’t I? Naturally, Harl had promised me I’d be safe, but I knew better than to trust that kind of promise. Noble gentlemen who make these arrangements always prefer you to be dead, too. You can’t blame Harl. I’d have done the same myself. So I made a little outlay of my own, on some soldiers, not to search a certain ship’s boat where I was. But there were so many soldiers, and they got so eager, that I had to knock a couple into the water and then cast that filthy tub loose. And I got shot at, and rowed after, and if I hadn’t happened to catch the tide, I wouldn’t be here now. So I don’t want more trouble this time. You don’t blame me, do you, little lady?”

  “I can’t honestly say,” said Hildy, “that I don’t.”

  Al blinked a little at this, and scratched his tousled head. He smiled incredulously at Ynen. “She’s a sharp one, your sister. She is your sister, isn’t she? Lucky I never mind what people say.” He moved Hobin’s gun round on his knee until it pointed to Mitt. “You. Find some tackle and catch us a fish for lunch.”

  “If you don’t mind what people say—no,” said Mitt.

  Al snapped back the trigger so that Hobin’s gun was ready to fire. “You can say what you like as long as you do it,” he said, and the look he gave Mitt made it quite clear he intended to shoot him.

  “There may be some tackle in one of those lockers,” Ynen told Mitt, in the slow, serious way people only use when they are truly frightened.

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