Hounds crouched at the edge of the pit, hand extended. Violet wanted to throw something at the woman. It was because of her Bandit was bleeding all over her.
“Come on, lass,” Hounds said. “We’re good to go, don’t be wasting time.”
Her face said she could see what Violet was thinking.
Good.
But there was no other way of climbing out of the pit. She started to reach for Hounds’ outstretched hand when the woman was pulled up by the bearded Kelpie. Violet would almost have cheered for Kilt if she didn’t blame him too.
She didn’t see who, but someone pushed Kilt. The Kelpie landed in an impossible pile of limbs in front of her and didn’t get up. She used him as a stepping stone and grabbed Hounds’ arm, locking gazes with the woman. Violet wasn’t the one to look away.
“I’m sorry,” Hounds said, quietly.
Violet didn’t give her a reply, turning her back and beginning the long walk back to the ship.
NEL KNEW HAZE could hear her approaching but the leathery old buzzard didn’t give her any sign of it. Engrossed in his work, fingers and bone fid working on a long splice, chapped lips whistling a shanty tune. Every inch the sailor, or the appearance of one.
Haze’s hearing was sharp as any and his eyes were probably not as bad as he let everyone believe, but it kept his duties light and sedentary and cut back on his time in the rigging. An easier ride at the end of a hard-lived life. Nel didn’t begrudge him his small deceptions; she rather admired him for it. He pulled his weight and earned his keep so he was right with her and the captain. And he was going to be able to shed light on what Nel suspected she’d seen.
Nel crouched in front of Haze, hands clasped over her knees, rocking back on her heels.
“Want something, Skipper?” Haze asked without stopping his splicing.
“A cold drink, a good turn at the tables, and a fat pay-out at the end of my run.”
“You don’t gamble.”
“Not when I might lose.”
“Naw. You like your odds, you just don’t have a face for cards.”
“You can see my face?”
“On a good day, Skipper. On a good day.”
She nodded.
“Your girl is watching,” Haze inclined his head over Nel’s shoulder. She sighed, knowing she’d see Violet if she turned around.
Moody too, right one since she got back.
“Yeah, she does that. Probably watching you though, learn her ropes proper.”
Haze leaned over further, partially obscuring his hands, mouth set in a grim line.
“Don’t care to be watched.”
Nel chuckled. “Your inks. Need to see one.”
“Need or want?” Haze grumbled.
“Need.”
“Which one?”
“The shellback, sailor.”
“Ah, that one. Forget where it is. Left buttock maybe.”
“Try right shoulder.”
“Could be the shoulder.”
“It is the shoulder, old man,” Nel said. “Just show me.”
Haze grunted in response but put down his rope-work, reaching up to pull his shirt over his head, exposing his upper body and all its adornments. Haze made a fuss of it, groaning and shuffling awkwardly to put his back to Nel.
“Old joints,” he wheezed.
“As you say.” Nel frowned at the shoulder in question. The skin was wrinkled and saggy, covered in old scars and burns besides. She reached out and smoothed the old skin with the palm of one hand so she could see the faded design better.
“Touching is extra, Skipper,” Haze laughed.
“Shut up, Haze.” She could feel him chuckle through her hand. “Hold still.”
It was a shellback, a turtle. In Haze’s case, it was made up of a number of unconnected single shapes and designs that made up the head, flippers, and body; when viewed as a whole they made up the larger animal. More intricate than most, but not dissimilar to what she’d seen at the Draugr pits.
She pulled her hand away. “You’ve had this a long while.”
“Longer than some, not as long as others,” Haze allowed. “Spent so long pulling ropes my own got worn away.” He held up his palm to show the truth of his words. His braided tattoo, the one all sailors inevitably asked for, was little more than a smudged black string.
“Needs a splice,” Nel said.
“You’re funny, Skipper.”
“Aye, it’s my curse. Where’d you get the turtle?”
“Military service.”
Service. If you wanted to live in the High Lanes you had to be a citizen. And if you were born outside of them you had to serve.
Remember a time when I still wanted to live in the High.
“You serve long?”
“Fifteen years.” Haze put his shirt back on and reached for his ropes. He set to work again as he talked. “From the ways of the High and Free to the Edge.”
The Edge, Nel thought. Beyond all the Lanes—even the Far Lanes. The Alliance used to send ships there, searching for a way through. Never found one and lost good ships trying.
“Couldn’t wait to be quit of the limeys by the end of it. Been in the Free Lanes ever since. When I first signed on with Horatio, I figured that would be my last ship.”
“Before the Tantamount?”
“Aye,” Haze winked. “Before our lady Tantamount.”
“Looks different to others I’ve seen.”
“Most folk like to add their blemish to a piece.”
“Flourish, you mean.”
“Naw, know what I mean.”
Nel sighed and ran a hand through her hair. “Saw one just like this, Haze, right here in Vice. So tell me now, afore I get angry, who was it put the slant on yours?”
“Was a group of us,” Haze grunted, eyes living up to his namesake as he recollected. “Twenty years back, maybe. All got stamped together, rite of passage and such. We was young, once. Younger, anyway, suppose I wasn’t. Were to keep us close, or so we thought.”
“Did it work?”
“No,” Haze scowled. “Most of them are dead, so I heard, across the years. Some as not, least not yet. One in particular. Never did like that one, stayed in the Alliance and made a name for herself. Had ideas about how things ought to be done, didn’t care to hear otherwise. Damned boot licker too. Heard another did well though, lucky run, retired to some island. Could be true.”
“Fellow I saw wasn’t old enough to have been born when you got that piece, Haze. Guess your scratcher is still stamping them out on any sailors who come through. Must be getting old. I hear old folks’ hands get shaky, can’t hold their drink no more.”
“Least we’re still allowed a drink, Skipper,” Haze grinned, showing missing teeth. Still had quite a few for his age—surprising someone hadn’t punched more of them out. “And we didn’t get no back-alley scratcher to carve this little beauty. Was young Wicker who done it. Fancied himself a bit of a natural at it. Bloody amateur really. Buggered the first one a right mess.”
Nel snorted. “And you still all went ahead and got them?”
“Had to, had agreed to, all gentlemanlike. And Rews insisted after he saw his, else he threatened to do them himself with a spike and a barrel of tar.” Haze held up the marlinspike and made a stabbing motion. “We did the honourable thing in the end. Went third myself so it weren’t as bad, once Wicker did his thing. Then we let Rews do his. Seemed fair at the time. Lad screamed like a lass. Rews didn’t have a clue what he was about. Boy had to get it redone at the next port just to cover up the scars.”
Nel frowned, thinking her way through the story. “Your man Wicker, what happened to him?”
“Dead, a dozen years now. Caught an infection of the blood, I think. Bad way to go.” Haze shook his head, then shrugged.
“So why am I spotting marines with your family crest running around Vice?” Nel said, almost talking to herself. She pushed herself up, prepared to dismiss the whole conversation as a dead end.
Haze grabbed her arm. “Marines? You never mentioned no marines.” Nel stared, surprised at his reaction.
“You getting us mixed up in Alliance crossfires again, lass?” Haze demanded.
“Let go, sailor,” Nel warned, not moving her arm. She locked eyes with the old man until he did as she said.
“What’s this?” she said, once he calmed.
Haze stared up at her sullenly, chewing on his own tongue before he answered. “One I mentioned, one I said stayed on in the fleet.”
“The boot licker, lass with ideas.”
Haze actually blanched at her words. “Be best if we both forget I said such.”
“Why?” Nel growled, trepidation starting to set in.
Haze’s face was pale. He missed a tuck on one of his ropes, staring at it in surprise, then swearing.
“Haze,” Nel insisted, “who was she?”
“Scariest woman I ever met,” Haze mumbled, hands shaking now. His jaw was set stubbornly, teeth gritted as he made a conscious effort to steady himself. “Scarier than you, Skipper. We all hated her. Was afraid of her. Knew she’d go far, get themselves a command, didn’t want to be around when they did.”
“The name, Haze.” Nel resisted the urge to shake him. “What was her name?”
“Forgot it,” Haze shook his head miserably. “Forgot her name but could never forget her. None of us could. Got the damned scars too . . .”
He took a deep, shuddering breath, eyes up to face Nel now. “Crew started calling her the Gunner’s Daughter. You know what that means, Skipper.”
Nel stared into the old sailor’s frightened eyes. Old sailors were hard sailors. Tough. Weather beaten. They didn’t scare easy. Haze was damned scared.
He was right, she did know who he meant.
And she knew the name.
The Gunner’s Daughter . . .
Hells . . .
“YOU DON’T LOOK so good, Skipper,” Violet risked saying as the woman walked past her. All pale she was, shock of red hair all the more shocking for it. She’d cut it shorter recently, so that it hung raggedly off her shoulders. The skipper wasn’t known for her skill with a pair of scissors. In fact she’d probably done it with a knife, maybe in a bout of frustration. Certainly looked like she’d cut it off angry. Violet didn’t have that problem. Her hair just curled, took forever to grow down. Unless it got wet. She hated when it got wet.
“I’m fine, Vi,” the skipper said, all grim and moody. She stopped, almost mid-pace. “I ever tell you not to listen in on my conversations?”
“No.”
“Then I’m telling you now. Don’t be listening in on my conversations.”
Can’t keep secrets from a cabin girl. The captain’s words. Made sense.
“Shouldn’t talk so loud,” Violet said back, wondering at her own cheek.
The skipper made a face that said she was thinking the same.
“What’d you hear, lass?” she asked curtly, folding her arms. Meant she weren’t leaving till she got an answer. And not just any answer. Had to be the answer she wanted to hear too.
“Bits and stuff about shellbacks and the Edge,” Violet shrugged.
“That it?”
Violet shrugged again. That really was most of what she’d heard. The conversation had got real quiet after that. Like the skipper really hadn’t wanted no one listening to what she and Haze were saying.
“Fine,” the skipper sighed, running a hand through her hair. “Fine, don’t matter none anyway. Seen the captain?”
Violet shook her head.
The skipper scowled at her. “You’re sombre and quiet, lass. What’d you do?”
“Nothing,” Violet said.
“You sure.”
Violet nodded, which only made the skipper’s face contort more.
“You got nothing to say?” the woman asked. “Nothing?”
“What’s a shellback?” Violet blurted out, unable to hold back the question anymore. “And the Edge, is that a place? Where is it? What is it? Is a shellback a fish? Or is it a clam? Maybe an oyster or some kind of cockle? Am I right?”
The skipper groaned. “Hells, I had to ask, didn’t I?”
“Am I right?”
“Hells, girl, you’re not even close. A shellback is not an oyster or a clam or any other shellfish.”
“So what is it? Is it a—”
“It’s a turtle,” the skipper cut her off, levelling a finger of warning at her. “The kind with flippers and not feet, before you ask me that too. Sailors who’ve been to the Edge get them. Mostly . . .” The skipper shrugged. “Mostly fools and madmen. Ain’t no reason to go to the Edge, not if you’ve a lick of sense between your ears.”
Violet nodded. That made sense. It sounded obscure, this shellback tattoo that she’d never heard of before, but then there were probably dozens, maybe hundreds of tattoos she hadn’t even imagined out there. Half of the tattoos sailors wore, carried on them like a second language, referenced places or events. Which brought them back to her other question.
“What’s the Edge, Skipper?”
“The Edge is the Edge,” was the reply. Nonsensical, not helpful at all. The woman was either distracted or was sandbagging her.
“The edge of what though?”
“Of everything.” The skipper waved an expansively dismissive hand. “Of this, of all of it, the black, the miasma. Everything.”
She turned to face Violet. “The Edge is as far as you can go through the black. It’s where the mist ends, where it grows so thin a ship that ventures any further will fall through it. And keep falling. Forever.”
“To where?” Violet felt her heart beat faster.
Fall forever? How was that even possible?
“Nobody knows. You can’t cross the Edge, can’t go around it, or over it, or under it. People have been trying to find a way since it was discovered, but no one ever has. And no one, not one ship, not a single castaway or marooned sailor has ever been found to tell what happens to those who push their luck too far. Not a one, Violet.”
“But where is it?”
“Everywhere,” the skipped said. “All around us. They say it’s like a giant fishbowl, with all of everything inside.”
Violet objected to the idea. It was ludicrous. “That doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never even heard of it.”
“Neither have most people. Hells, most people have never heard of Hail or Storm. Nobody has heard of Walker and some think Vice is just a bad hobby.”
“But . . .”
“You could sail for a year, Violet,” the skipper said. “A whole year. If you set out from Vice, right here, right now, in any direction it would take you more than a year to reach the Edge. More, depending on how unlucky your choice was. But at least a year. That’s how far away it is. The Edge of the black. The last stop before it all ends.”
The skipper straightened up, one hand on her hip, thumb tucked into the top of her breeches. The other hand rubbed at her arm, the one covered in tattoos.
“Shellbacks are sailors who’ve been to the Edge, Violet. Those few who’ve made the journey and returned to speak of it. And not many will. Speak of it, that is. Though there’s always some who don’t return at that. A shellback is someone worth respecting, a sailor who’s earned the right to be called such. It’s the folk behind such a journey who’d worry me. Them that’d send a crew out on a trip like that, knowing they might not come back and knowing there’s no good as has ever come of the Edge.”
“Skipper?” Violet asked.
“Yeah?”
“Why are we talking about this?”
The skipper didn’t answer. Not directly. “Just old hand’s tales, lass. Just that. Need a word with the captain now. Make yourself useful. Go get Haze to teach you his ropes, maybe.”
Chapter 15
FOR THE FIRST time Nel could recall, her new mate was in a mood. In the time she’d been aboard there had always been a wry amusement to Hounds, a sense of world-weary mocking at
the world’s expense, like the woman knew something nobody else did. Only now she looked as though she’d played a bad beat at the tables, a sure winner that somehow got trumped by an even better hand. Nel had seen the same look on the captain’s face more times than she could count. With him it was resignation but Hounds made it look angry.
“Hounds, need the captain, you seen him?”
That got no response. Nel found she had to repeat herself, louder.
“Went chasing a vendor.” Hounds made a vague motion with her hand. “Sweetcakes, from down the pier. Should be back in a minute.”
“Fine, I can wait a minute.”
Hounds didn’t answer, just left her chin resting against her chest. Anyone could see she was deep inside herself, wrestling with some moral quandary.
Hells, probably should ask her about it.
Should.
“What?” Hounds half turned her head. “What’re you looking at me like that for, Vaughn?”
“No reason,” Nel said, keeping her tone even. She deliberately looked towards Vice but there was no sign of the captain. Could be lost in the crowd though, hard to pick such a small man out of the rabble.
“Did Violet say something?”
“Violet?”
“Did she?”
“No,” Nel said, facing the woman now. “She didn’t, but maybe I should go ask her. Something I should know?”
Hounds clammed up again, her teeth clenched and jaws bunching.
“What did you do?” Nel asked again, on the verge of angry.
“Screwed up,” Hounds said, to her surprise. “Don’t think Vi’s going to be talking to me for a while.”
Hounds had her arms wrapped around herself, rubbing at her bare arms. It was a habit Nel recognised in herself, a nervous tic, fingers tracing old scars and tattoos. There was one on the inside of Hounds’ upper arm the woman was digging her thumb into, almost to the point of breaking skin and drawing blood. And Nel felt a catch in her throat when her eyes seized on that one design.
“I’ll talk to her,” Hounds said, mostly to herself. “Explain things. Make it right.”
“Yeah, you—” Nel stopped mid-sentence. She’d just seen the captain making his way up the gangway. “No, don’t talk to her, hells, don’t do anything. Give the girl space, Hounds. I need to talk to the captain. But you and I are going to have words later.”
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