Black & Mist

by Thomas J. Radford

  All so the ship’s crane could swing out over the side and lower the two of them to the spine of the ship.

  The chair was crowded. Crowded and cold. Mantid’s chitinous body was rigid, and Violet found herself edging to the limit of the seat, hips half off the edge of the plank as she skived away from Mantid’s spiky forearms. It couldn’t have been much more comfortable for Mantid. His irregular body had him almost squatting over the plank, legs wrapped around it. Too bad they couldn’t have been lowered down in the bubble but then they wouldn’t have been able to get at the seam.

  The air got colder as the crew lowered them. Thinner too. Violet’s breath became more laboured, emerging in small puffs. Mantid seemed to move more slowly too but he might have just been holding still, trying not to jostle the tin of molten pitch hung between them. Violet hadn’t been keen on riding down with a bucket of boiling black goo. But it was preferable to being underneath it when it was lowered down from a pitching ship. Hounds had explained that in graphic detail to her.

  “There,” Violet pointed, leaning forward. She could see the patch job, crude like Hounds had said. Right where she’d taken an axe to the bottom of the ship. Piper had died on the other side of that.

  No, that wasn’t right. She hadn’t seen that happen. When she closed her eyes she could still see his face, solemn and wise. Not gone. The burly arms and shoulders, the perfect place for Bandit to ride about. All covered in ink, tattoos like the one on her shoulder. Not dead, just gone, just for a little while. That was what she told herself, over and over.

  Just gone, just gone.

  Her eyes were hot and her face was cold. Stupid tears. She shook her head angrily, dashing them away to form tiny puffs of sleet. Now wasn’t the time to think about this.

  She remembered splinters flying, the sounds of fighting above her, then the gleaming black golem falling past her into the black.

  Forever into the black, nothing but stars and mist.

  Violet shook her head again, making the chair sway a bit, and reached for her scraping tool, pushing all that aside. She could see the faint clouds of ether now, where they were seeping out of the hull. They left a trail like water through snow, cutting through the nearby miasma in a river before it became difficult to see where one ended and the other began.

  Mantid reached out with his front two legs, latching onto the garboard seam and transferring his weight from the bosun’s chair to the hull. Violet was envious. He was managing to hold on even with the unstable pull from the ballast. The rope around her waist was already chafing.

  Before they could caulk the seam, they had to remove the old fibrous wadding filling the seam. Mantid was doing so with his forearms, walking backwards along the seam and scraping it away. Violet had to do the same with a raking iron, digging out the caulk and tar without damaging the seam. Despite the chill air, it wasn’t long before she was sweating profusely, her arms and back starting to moan in protest. The hardest part was not being able to brace her feet against anything, and taking care not to knock over the hot pitch beside her.

  A sidelong glance told her Mantid had already finished his share of the work, clinging at an angle to the hull and watching her.

  “You can start working on the patch,” Violet told him. “I’ll manage the devil.”

  Again the odd, quizzical tilt of the head. Maybe it was his way of nodding. He did set to work, reaching out and plucking a strand of oakum delicately from the bag slung over the bosun’s chair. Despite not having fingers, Mantid managed well enough.

  More than well enough. Seemed his forelimbs were perfect for driving the oakum into the cracked seams, especially where the timbers had warped, like Hounds had said. Probably from all the ice melt inside.

  The rope caught at her waist again when she leaned forward. Violet cursed and reached for the knot. She hadn’t fallen since her first few weeks on the Tantamount. You learnt to hold on or you got what you deserved. With the rope gone she could reach the edges of what needed clearing. Once Violet had finished clearing the devil seam, Mantid started filling in that as well, forelimbs hammering away at the tarred ropes. Violet still had to go over them all again with a caulking mallet to make sure they were proper wedged. Hounds had explained that it would have to be her as Mantid couldn’t manage a tool like a hammer.

  A likely story, she thought as she took up hammer and iron, leaning out to start tapping away at the tightly packed seams. It was a slow process, but not half so hard as Hounds had made it out to be.

  Between the devil and the black, she’d called it. Violet looked down between her knees; wispy miasma, brightly coloured stars. Off in the distance the grey turned to purple and shades of blue. A nebula, maybe. Quill had mentioned there was one near Vice. Something to aim for if she fell.

  She could see the other side of the hull, due to the unnatural tilt of the ship. It was covered in hoarfrost, a thin layer of fresh ice moulting.

  Ether must be gathering there. Least it won’t melt the cargo on that side.

  It was too bad they couldn’t just shave the ice off the side of a ship. When it formed on the inside of the hull it was fine, good enough for chilling drinks at least. Mostly. But on the outside it formed and froze with bits and pieces of miasma littered throughout. Ether or the opposite of what ether was. Seemed a waste, but the captain and skipper both said never to use that ice.

  “Be out of a job though,” Violet said aloud, causing Mantid to stare at her funny. Or maybe he wasn’t staring at her. Big bug seemed worked up over something. He was turning in place, all four legs doing a sort of jig. Head kept watching her though, through a complete turn. Violet shrugged her shoulders and got to tapping again.

  “Violet, Mantid!”

  Someone calling from above. Sounded like Hounds, or maybe the skipper. Both sounded alike when they bellowed.

  “Gonna pull you up.” It was Hounds, leaning far out over the edge too.

  “We ain’t done yet!” Violet called back, leaning out so as she could see Hounds. “Still got to pay these ropes over.”

  “No time,” Hounds yelled. “Into the chair, both of you. Kelpie says there’s a broken corridor ahead. Can’t risk hitting it with the ship on a lean like this.”

  The words had an immediate effect on Mantid. His head swivelled back and forth rapidly, clearly agitated. Then he took a flying leap from the hull to the chair. Violet had to grab for the support rope as Mantid’s arrival sent the chair swinging, scalding hot pitch splattering everywhere.

  Violet planted one foot, in almost the only place that wasn’t tarred. She reached for her discarded safety rope with her free hand as Mantid called out above them, a sound Violet had never heard him make before that was somewhere between a chirp and a hiss. She had the absurd thought that it was Bandit and Quill singing together.

  Whatever it sounded like to her, to Hounds and the crew above it clearly meant haul on the ropes, as the chair started ascending jerkily. Violet cursed again and wrapped the safety rope around her wrist. Opposite her, Mantid had all four feet out and splayed, one hooked over a rope. His arms with their sharp spines were tucked tight against his chest, maybe so he wouldn’t cut the ropes himself. That would be bad.

  “Brace!”

  The word rang out from above, moments before the whole ship shuddered. Violet thought she could hear the Tantamount scream in protest as if it was buffeted by an unexpected envelope, causing timbers to strain against themselves and ropes to heave. The chair swung toward the hull. Violet brought her feet up instinctively, hoisting herself off the wood and taking the impact through her legs. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mantid do another one of his flying leaps, back to the hull this time and sticking there. All six limbs were out now, sunk into whatever purchase he’d managed to find. Meant she had the chair all to herself, though Violet felt better off trusting to the ropes she was holding.

  The Tantamount shook again and there was an explosive crack. One of the ropes holding the chair gave. Violet snatched for
the safety rope with her suddenly free hand as the other arm now took all her weight. She dropped maybe a foot in height as well, swinging wildly. The wooden plank that had been the chair battered against her, hanging now by a single rope.

  The Tantamount was flying level again, which left Violet hanging almost a dozen feet from the hull. Above her, she could see Mantid still clinging to the underside of the hull, as stuck as she was. He was able to rotate his head and watch her, but little else.

  Holding tight with both arms, all she could do was wait for the crew to pull her up. Her arms were already burning. She doubted she had the energy to haul herself up, arm over arm. Too far to swing to the hull and no way to grab onto the curve, not without insect arms.

  The breach was directly opposite her now, the poorly patched breach. The thought came to her; it hadn’t stood up to the weight of an obsidian golem, how had it held this long against tons of ice pushing at it? She imagined how fitting it would be if it gave right now, at this moment. How fitting it would be if she went the same way as Onyx had gone.

  Serves you right.

  Violet was watching the outline of the patch when the first trickle of water began. First a trickle, then a geyser, as the wooden plug was ejected violently from the body of the ship. It struck her in the shins but any pain was forgotten as the deluge of icy water rushed over her. Violet’s scream was swallowed up in the wash as she was swept away from the hull.

  All she could do was cough. Water had entered her mouth, filling her lungs. One hand came away and again she found herself hanging by a single arm, the rope burning as it slid through her clenched fist. Then the torrent took her outside the envelope, the swing of the rope carrying her into the black. The water turned to ice. Already freezing, it became a winter cloak, draping her body in a rigid second skin. Violet had to shut her eyes against the cold before they froze over themselves. She could barely move and felt herself sliding further down the rope. She must be almost at the end now. But even the reality of falling into the black couldn’t force her to lift the other hand to grab hold.

  Then there were hands on her; hot, burning hands. Hands that grabbed at her arms and the folds of her clothing, dragging her over rough obstacles before laying her down on an unyielding surface.

  Solid ground. It felt strange to her numb mind.

  “Open your eyes, Violet,” someone told her.

  It took time but she managed that much. She was on the deck, swaddled in blankets. Half the crew were arrayed in front of her, wide eyed. Skipper, Captain, Gabbi, and Jack. Even Quill was there, dark and angry as always. Probably wishing she’d been swept all the way out into the black, never to be a nuisance to him again.

  Violet found she couldn’t stop shivering, despite all the blankets. And her hand hurt something fierce. She turned her head to the side and found Gabbi cradling the injured appendage.

  “Don’t be looking, Vi,” the woman advised her. Violet realised the woman’s hands were shaking as she wrapped Violet’s in castoff rags. “You got some nasty rope burn.”

  “You held fast there, lass.” Hounds clasped her shoulder proudly, white teeth showing a wide grin. “Not a soul here could have done it better.”

  “Shouldn’t have had to hold fast,” the skipper growled at her. “What the hells went wrong down there?” The woman sounded as angry as Violet had ever heard her.

  “Our past come back to haunt us,” the captain could be heard to say. “Nel, Hounds, a word with you both.”

  “Don’t mind them,” Gabbi told Violet, tying off a knot between her thumb and forefinger. “Scared us, that’s all. Always where the trouble’s deepest, you are. Worse than the skipper, Vi. Least when she jumps she keeps the rope tied off and don’t do it soaking wet.”

  “Wasn’t my idea,” Violet protested weakly.

  A shadow fell over her. Quill.

  “What?” she said, glaring at up at him.

  The Kelpie studied her through slitted eyes but said nothing, leaving without a word.

  “Ignore him,” Gabbi said. “Best thing for it.”

  “Like you do?”

  “Best thing for you, then.”

  “Mantid!” Violet sat upright, remembering. “Where is he?”

  “He’s fine, lass,” Gabbi assured her quickly. “Came up with the chair right after we pulled you up. In a state but none the worse for it.”

  “Good.” Violet nodded her head. It was a struggle to keep it upright. “That’s good.”

  Gabbi held Violet’s mummified hand between hers. “Putting you to bed, lass. Stop by the galley when you come to, I’ll oil your burns and we’ll wrap it proper. Any luck and you won’t scar. Can even get your tattoo touched up next port if you’ve a mind.”

  “My tattoo?” Violet’s stomach dropped. Her injured hand was the same one she’d received her first tattoo on. The rope snaking around her wrist and palm.

  “Don’t fret, lass,” Gabbi said. “You held fast, just you were ought to. Piper would be proud of you, right proud.”

  Violet managed a small smile at that. Piper and the skipper had taken her for that first tattoo, half a lifetime ago now.

  “Someone else to see you,” Gabbi pointed.

  It was Mantid, skittering towards them cautiously. A steaming mug clasped precariously between his two folded forelimbs. Very, very carefully, he held it out to her.

  “Better take it,” Gabbi advised. “That’s a right unnatural way to hold coffee.”

  Chapter 10

  GRAVEL WAS COUGHING up blood. His nose was broken, gushing red, and he was drowning in the stuff.

  Mors Coldstream gave him a disgusted look, placing his foot on the landsman’s shoulder and kicking him over onto his front. Blood splattered on the deck but at least Gravel could breathe again.

  Mors walked back up the gangway, turning to face the crew from atop the tender. Crates and barrels had been placed around the ship to give the scene some window dressing. The objective was simple: board the ship, claim the prize. The marines just had to go through Mors to do it.

  Gravel hadn’t been the first to go down, just the bloodiest.

  “Again!” Mors called out.

  Three marines rushed up the planking, seeking to close. They knew better than to engage the ship’s premiere duellist at range.

  They didn’t fare much better up close.

  “You all right, sailor?” Kaspar knelt by his friend, holding a swab of bandages out.

  “Fine, sir,” Gravel pressed the cloth to his face. It turned damp and sodden and crimson. “Just dandy. Hoping to hold out long enough to see those two go at it.”

  Kaspar looked over at his shoulder where the rest of the marines were gathered around Aristeia. The woman wore leathers and vest, sleeveless, staff slung over one shoulder. A group of shellbacks surrounded her, waiting their turn.

  “Be grateful it’s not both of them,” Kaspar told him. “Get up, you’ve laid down long enough.”

  The landsman groaned, whether from pain or the idea of facing down both Mors and Aristeia, Kaspar didn’t know. Together they made it over to the makeshift triage set-up for Mors’ earlier victims.

  Boarding drills. Everyone got a turn.

  “What are we doing this for, Ensign?” Gravel eased himself down onto one of the cots.

  “Captain’s orders, sailor,” Kaspar said.

  Gravel coughed. More blood. Not much of an answer.

  “Ensign!” the first mate called out. “Line up with the next wave.”

  Kaspar flinched, though not from Aristeia’s words. He looked down at Gravel. The landsman was clutching his own hand arm tight but it was the half-chewed nails that made him flinch. There was a charge coming off the lad.

  “Push it down.” Kaspar clapped his friend on the shoulder. He forced himself to ignore the shocks running through his bones from the joint. He had to, else Brandon would be sent back to the Allied worlds. They were part of the Alliance. And that was what was required from all thaumatics.

&nbs
p; “Fine, fine. Sir.” Gravel broke the contact, drawing a deep breath. “Go do your duty, Niko. Before Mistress Quinn misses yourself.”

  The first mate’s eyes were on Kaspar as he took up his position at the back of the line. Wand in hand, a marine on his left and able seaman on his right. Everybody drilled. Captain had yet to say why.

  Aristeia’s smile was mocking as he passed her, the shellback scars on her shoulder a reminder of what he wasn’t.

  At least it was over quickly.

  “Damned stupid, Sir,” Gravel said to him later, lying slumped in an out-of-the-way corridor. Backs against the wall and legs stretched out. Everything on the ship was metal—for once the cold embrace felt good against bruised skin. “Spent enough weeks drifting on that dinghy. Never thought we’d be trying to board her back.”

  Kaspar would have made a face at the landsman but his own hurt too much. Mors had cracked him along the jaw. Been lucky though. Aristeia had decided to take a turn alongside Mors after. Beating on marines and sailors was more fun than facing a fair fight.

  “Might still be out there if it wasn’t for you,” Kaspar said.

  “Best not be telling anyone that,” Gravel winked.

  “Need to keep your temper,” Kaspar told him pointedly. “You want to be found out? To be sent to some training camp?”

  “Temper’s just fine, sir,” Gravel assured him. “Maybe you could come with me though, back to the inner band. Before Mikel starts to think you’ve wandered off into some tavern of disrepute.”

  Kaspar scowled at his friend. “Mind your business.”

  “Am. Quite liked your bearded love, Ensign. Made you smile once. Saw it myself. Wondrous thing. Just have to keep you out of the watering holes til we can get you safely home to him.”

  “I was looking for you,” Kaspar reminded him pointedly.

  “Aye, but you and I don’t look for the same, sir. And I was looking in the all wrong places. Was so sure I’d found that someone special. Biggest eyes I ever did see on that lass.”