Black & Mist

by Thomas J. Radford

  For now the golem didn’t seem interested in him, as oblivious to his presence as the Draugr were to it. Those that remained, that was, the scrapers on the other side of the river.

  The cutters, those who had been harnessed behind him, they lay motionless on the ice. Decapitated, heads severed from their bodies, limbs ripped off. Dismembered in a silent surgery, neither golem nor Draugr making a sound. Dark stains were spreading from the mutilated bodies, if not blood then something very much like it. The foreman felt his own guts begin to heave as his mind struggled to accept what he was looking at.

  The golem took a step towards him, footsteps loud, frighteningly loud on the brushed ice. One step then another, but not towards him, he realised with something that was both panic and relief. Its attention was solely fixed on the remaining Draugr across the river, its intentions as obvious when it raised one clenched fist. The arm attached to that fist extended out like a fin, tapering to what looked like a razor-sharp edge, and gleamed wetly in the night. Redundant, the foreman thought madly, the thing was clearly capable of tearing whatever it chose apart with its bare hands.

  It must have heard his thoughts, or else he was babbling out loud. It was the only explanation for why those infernal red eyes suddenly fixed on him. The golem slowed, seemed torn in indecision for a moment, before it changed direction towards him.

  The foreman squealed and began to run, feet slipping along the ice despite the spikes. Then came the sound he’d been dreading.

  The sound of ice cracking. The sight of a crack racing out from between his feet ahead of him. He risked a look behind him. The golem had paused, looking down at its foot where the crack had started. It raised that foot again and brought it down hard.

  The ice under the foreman gave and all he knew was cold.

  THE NOON BELLS were tolling, four sets of pairs. Violet didn’t have to turn around to know that sailors were already lining up in front of the galley for their daily ration of grog. She wrinkled her nose. The smell of the undiluted rum was enough to make her gag. Not that she was permitted a share, on account of her age.

  Her age didn’t excuse her from the daily ritual though. The shout of “up spirits” was making the rounds; as if anyone needed to be made aware.

  Stepping out onto the deck, Violet watched as Jack came down from the mainmast and made the trip across the quarterdeck and towards the stern of the ship where the skipper was on watch. What happened next was unusual. The skipper waved Jack off, angrily and to the Korrigan’s considerable confusion. After a moment, Jack turned about and made his way back towards the galley.

  “What’s going on, Jack?” Gabbi asked, emerging from the galley with her measuring jugs.

  “Captain’s got the key,” Jack told her.

  “But it’s the skipper’s watch,” Violet said. The watch officer always held the key to the rum jug. Always.

  Jack shrugged, headed now for the captain’s cabin at the very back of the ship.

  “Hells,” Gabbi muttered.

  “Why’s the captain got the key, Gabbi?”

  “No good reason, Vi. For pity’s sake don’t be asking the skipper why either. Just let this one go.”

  “But . . .”

  “Please, lass, just hush this once.”

  Violet chewed on her lower lip until Jack came back holding the key to the spirit locker. He waved to one of the sailors loitering near the galley and disappeared below decks. He emerged a few minutes later with the ornately decorated rum jug carried between him and the other sailor.

  The officers all lined up in front of it, calling out the numbers of sailors present from their watches. Gabbi measured out each sailor’s allowance, their daily tot, before mixing it all in a separate tub with water from another cask. One-part rum to four-parts water, if Violet remembered correctly. The crew all filed through with their drinking vessels in hand, and Gabbi doled out their ration. Most drank it then and there in one long gulp.

  The officers went last, Hounds being first in line.

  “Thought I was done being back of the line,” the woman said with a crooked grin.

  “Captain’s orders,” Gabbi told her. “Crew comes first.”

  “Aye, keeps them from jumping every other port. Still, always thought cutting the line was the best part about making officer.”

  “Cook,” was all Quill said, holding out a tin cup when he stepped up.

  “You started drinking all of a sudden, Loveland?” Gabbi asked in surprise. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

  “I require it straight, cook.”

  Gabbi chuckled. “Now that’d be a sight.” She measured out Quill’s share of rum from the jug without mixing it with water. Only the officers were allowed to request their ration be served neat. The Kelpie turned stiffly and strode away, showing no signs of actually intending to drink his. Violet didn’t think she’d ever seen Quill drink. Already she could see the crew take note of this development.

  Gabbi winked at Violet. “Wonder who he owes.”

  “Maybe he’s looking to trade,” she suggested. Rum was as good as coin during a run. Most crew were happy to trade favours and goods for extra rations.

  “Kelpie don’t do favours or ask them,” Gabbi said confidently. “He owes someone.”

  Jack shuffled up, looking unhappy. “Tastes different,” he complained. “What’d you do?”

  “Added limes, Jack. They’re good for you. Stop your teeth rotting and your gums bleeding.”

  “Tastes different.”

  “Limes make it better. Oi, who’s Quill gone and got himself indebted to? You know?”

  Jack shrugged. “Denzel maybe. They’ve been playing cards.”

  “Kelpie plays cards?”

  “Kelpie loses at cards.”

  “Ha, now that makes my day. Skipper, you collecting or no?”

  Violet saw the skipper leaning against the sterncastle stairs. She looked both angry and miserable at the same time. But she did push herself up and made the walk over.

  “Straight or cut, Skipper?” Gabbi asked.

  The skipper made a face. “Six water,” she said.

  Gabbi hesitated, ladle halfway up. “I hear that right?”

  The skipper sighed. “Six water grog, Gabbi,” she repeated. “And just say no more about it.”

  “Six water it is,” Gabbi said quietly, pouring Nel’s ration and adding an extra third of water to it. The skipper took it and turned around, making her way back to her post. It struck Violet as a long, lonely walk.

  She heard a door close, turned her head fast enough to see the back of the captain through the window. No wonder the skipper had looked miserable. Not only had the captain cut her rum ration, but he hadn’t trusted her with the key to the spirit room.

  “Not a word, Violet,” Gabbi looked at her hard. “Not one word.”

  Violet nodded mutely.

  “Jack, take the jug back below. I’ve got work that needs doing.”

  Chapter 9

  JACK HAD MANAGED to retrieve the jug without her but had insisted Violet accompany him and Mugs as they manhandled the rum jug back down below. She led the way with a glowstone in one hand, the fist sized orb putting out a silvery light on the Tantamount’s innards.

  Funny things, glowstones. Only glow when it’s dark and only aboard ships and only down in the hold. That’s a lot of only. Probably more etheric mishaps, Violet mused. She could see mostly fine without the stone’s help so she held it behind her back, lighting the way for the two grunting seamen. Grunting was good though. Meant the jug was heavy and it wouldn’t run dry too soon. Bad things happened when the rum was gone.

  “Jack,” Violet called, stopping halfway into the cargo hold.

  “What?” It sounded like what. It was mostly an unintelligible grunt as he hauled away. There was a thump as he and Mugs rested the rum jug. Violet thought they would have been more respectful of it, or at least careful.

  “This ain’t where she goes,” Jack said more clearly. “Go
tta be tucked away or the layabouts will be tapping the admiral. Don’t want that.”

  “Don’t use rum for an admiral,” Mugs disputed his claim. “Gotta be brandy.”

  “Don’t got brandy. Rum’s just as good.”

  “Ain’t proper. Admirals go in brandy. Officers go in whiskey.”

  “Then what’s rum for?” Jack challenged.

  “For drinking. Can’t waste good rum on an officer.”

  Jack actually burst out laughing, clapping Mugs on the shoulder. The sailor staggered and winced under the approval.

  “Jack,” Violet called again, holding back a long suffering sigh.

  “What?” he yelled, annoyed again.

  “Got wet feet.”

  Unlike a lot of the other sailors, Violet hadn’t yet switched to wearing boots aboard for this run. She got sent to the nest too often and found she couldn’t grip the ropes so well. The cold had seeped into the ship but so far she had been all right. Tails were going a bit stiff but the extra fur helped. Better than Quill anyway.

  But now her feet were both cold and wet. She was standing in a very thin layer of water, like what you’d find on a cottage window on a misty morning. The kind that filtered through from the other side.

  Jack ambled up beside her, kneeling and reaching out with one big paw to touch the deck. He stared at his hand unhappily. He turned around and made a signal to Mugs. The two both grabbed an ear of the rum jug and started back the way they’d come.

  “Jack!” Violet called after him. “Where you going?”

  “Up top,” Jack told her between grunts. “Ice is melting. Not leaving the rum down here. Wouldn’t be safe.”

  “Can’t waste good rum,” Mugs agreed.

  Bad things happened when the rum ran out. But right now the rum was running away.

  THE FIRST ATTEMPT to investigate their melting cargo was doomed before it began. The hold had been packed to the gunwales, or as far as the blocks of ice could be packed and kept cold. Packed in such a way that it was impossible to investigate deep into the hold. There was nowhere to shift the ice that needed to be cleared away.

  “Condensation,” the captain had announced upon inspection. “Most likely a split seam on the underside. Leaking ether, shifting the envelope around.”

  An unstable envelope, as Violet came to understand, meant trouble. It was like a small tide, rising and falling, the worst kind of shifting ballast. If it was a bad leak, it could start to affect the entire ship, putting them all at risk. But right now it was creating friction, the folds and bulges of a shifting envelope creating heat. Not much, but certainly enough to begin the thawing of the Tantamount’s cargo.

  Which was what needed to be confirmed now. Violet had offered to go over the side to investigate just that.

  “Absolutely not,” the skipper had told her. Swaying. Shaking. The skipper didn’t look at her. She had the trembles, both in her hands and feet. Withdrawal, Gabbi had whispered when the woman’s back was turned. All the grog leaving her body the same way the ether was being leeched from the ship. And it didn’t look an enjoyable experience.

  “Can’t go walking down the hull.” The skipper shook her head, hugging her arms to herself. “Not with a shifting envelope. One wrong bank and you might not have enough pull to keep your feet stuck. Ain’t jumping out after you.”

  “Indeed not,” the captain said. “Far too dangerous a job. We’ll use the bosun’s chair. Lower a man down.”

  “I’ll go,” the skipper said immediately, stepping up to the edge and casting a speculative glance over.

  “I think not,” the captain said, looking his first officer up and down.

  The skipper started to object. “Captain, I am more than capable of . . .”

  “Chanel,” the captain said, quietly. The skipper stared at him, open mouthed. She turned away, walking stiffly to the far end of the ship, joining Quill on the bridge. The navigator gave her an odd look but didn’t make any obvious comments to her.

  Names are powerful, Violet thought, unhappily. You didn’t call the skipper by her proper name. Violet could count on one hand the number of times she’d heard folk do it, and none of those had been good times.

  “Miss Hounds,” the captain raised his voice to be heard.

  “Aye, Captain?” The woman appeared at his side quickly. If she’d heard any of the exchange she gave no sign of it.

  “Bring the bosun’s chair around and take a view of our underbelly,” he told her.

  “Aye aye, sir.” Hounds saluted. She still saluted different to all the other crew Violet noted. Even her people followed the usual form when salutes were required. Odd, that.

  Hounds worked quickly, Violet was forced to admit. The crane was unlashed and the bosun’s chair detached from the mainmast’s rigging and brought over. Hounds gave Violet a wink as she disappeared over the side.

  With nothing to do but wait, something she had never been good at, Violet made her way to the bridge. Quill gave her ugly looks. Nothing new there, but the skipper ignored her as well, holding tight to a rope and staring down the back trail of the Tantamount.

  “Skipper?” Violet called to her.

  No answer. The woman kept her back stiffly turned about. The hand that held onto the rope was white knuckled and trembling.

  Violet took a step closer. Something struck at her feet, fast and whiplike. She could only gape at Quill in surprise as his tail retracted behind him. His head turned down towards her, teeth bared.

  A shout from behind her. They were pulling Hounds back up. Quill jerked his head back the way Violet had come. There was little to misinterpret about any of it.

  “You all right, Vi?” Gabbi asked. The cook leaned against the galley door under the bridge, watching Jack and the other hands as they worked the crane.

  “Fine,” Violet snapped, meaner than she’d intended. She dashed at her eyes with the back of one hand, blinking furiously. She faced away from Gabbi too, like the skipper had done.

  “Skipper’s a real bear hung-over,” Gabbi offered. “Kelpie’s more of a dog, don’t know when to back down.”

  “It’s fine,” Violet repeated loudly. “Don’t care, anyways.”

  “Course you don’t,” Gabbi nodded. “Best go, Captain’s waving for you.”

  “Right,” Violet said, sucking in a deep breath.

  “It’s bad, Captain,” Hounds was saying. “And by bad, I mean whoever patched your woodwork did so something awful. Can see where you had a chunk bitten out of you.”

  That had been Violet’s handiwork. Her idea. Not the repairs but dropping the golem through the bowels of the ship.

  “Timbers are warped outwards,” Hounds went on. “Wasn’t caulked properly so we’re going to need oakum and pitch to fix it.”

  “We laid in both last stop,” the captain confirmed.

  “Going to need lots,” Hound said. “It’s the devil that cracked.”

  A pall of silence hung over the gathered crew.

  The devil seam. It would have to be that, the garboard seam, the devil.

  Means the leak is directly underneath us, right along the bottom of the hull.

  Means it is my fault.

  “Who’s our best caulker, Captain?” Hounds asked.

  “Piper, naturally,” the captain frowned at her. “Where is he? Ah, Violet, where’s Piper? Haven’t seen him. Not like him, not like him at all.”

  “Don’t know no Piper, Captain,” Hounds said, looking confused. Violet stepped up beside her.

  “Piper’s not here no more, Captain,” she said, speaking directly to him. “Not since before we stopped in Port Border. Remember?”

  “Ah,” the captain sighed, putting a hand to his temple. “Yes, yes I do remember, Violet. I miss him, that’s all that is. That’s all it is, you get used to people being around after a while. That’s all it is.”

  “You any good with a caulking iron or hammer, lass?” Hounds said to Violet.

  She shrugged. “Used them once or twic
e.”

  “Don’t be false modest here,” Hounds said. “What I’m gonna ask you . . . it ain’t safe, won’t lie about that. Need to caulk that seam, and it is that seam, the one and only. It’s a two-man job and the chair don’t like to hold two. You though, you’re little and light, won’t notice so much.”

  “I can do it,” Violet told her. “Who you sending with me?”

  Hounds appeared to consider but Violet suspected she already had a plan in mind. Woman was just talking her way through it.

  “Mantid. Lighter than he looks. Sent him out on plenty of walks before too. Spikes and pincers are good for making sure you don’t come loose. We’ll tie a rope to you though, just take it slow and do it right.”

  Mantid was making his way down from the crow’s nest. There was something unnatural about the way he walked, face first, legs all out and splayed. Like some great big spider rather than . . . whatever else he was meant to be. Bug’s head was doing that odd twist again, all the way to the side with one eye up and the other down, looking at everything askew. Looking at her, Violet concluded.

  Didn’t look any more thrilled about their job than she was.

  THERE WAS A step involved in caulking the devil that Violet hadn’t thought of. Hadn’t even been aware of up until now. In all her time aboard it had never occurred, close but never actually, though she had seen it happen to other ships. Throwing the Tantamount off her axis.

  Quill hadn’t been happy about it. Quill was never happy about anything but this he had objected to vehemently. Even yelling at the captain. Violet hadn’t seen who had shouted him down, too busy boiling pitch, but she would have paid good coin to have witnessed it.

  Crew had to be sent to disrupt the etheric ballast. There was a more complicated term for it that Violet had missed. Something about realignment. They were going to shift the plane the Tantamount sailed on.

  She hadn’t liked that part. It had been sudden and violent. There had been cussing up and down the ship, a crash from the galley. It was like someone had taken the world and all its orientations and twisted it hard.