“But I do remember, I always remember. Other people. The ones I care about, this ship. Or near enough. It’s only myself that I forget, that I sometimes can’t hold on to.”
There were going to be tears. She could feel them. Hot and wet, salty like water should be. Threatening to flood down her cheeks. Violet screwed up her face angrily.
Not going to happen. Not in front of the captain.
“Do you know,” the captain said quietly, so very quietly, “why I am the way I am? The way I am now?”
“You’re the captain,” Violet said, feeling miserable. “I’ve never known you to be anything else. Other than the captain of the Tantamount. My captain.”
“Ah, but Violet, once, long ago, or not so long ago, I was. Or maybe the ship was, does it matter? Perhaps not, it seems close enough. Perhaps it doesn’t matter, Nel would say as much. But it was a different name then, this was different. The whole world was different. They call it Misery now, I believe. But back then it was Vintage. Back in the day . . .”
He laughed. It wasn’t a bitter laugh. There was laughter in it, happier times.
“I had a wife there, a daughter. No, two daughters, Nel always reminds me of that, I ask her why not three, or even more. They were very much alike, my girls. In my head . . . they become muddled, Violet. I’m never sure if I’m thinking of the younger one or if I’m remembering her older sister when she was younger. And I can’t remember their names. Only the looks on their faces. But that is the way it should be. I wouldn’t want it the other way.
“It was the fog, you see,” Horatio said. “Like the mist, only . . . only very wrong. It’s supposed to be out there, in the black. Far, so very far away. Not down on the ground. It does funny things to a person. They didn’t know that’s what it was, of course. Vintage was inside the High Lanes, part of the Allied Worlds. People started . . . started . . . they were . . . ”
“Captain?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Like me, Violet. A whole world gone rather mad. Forgetful. Lost. In just a few weeks. Nobody understood that, of course. The Alliance was frightened. A plague, a weapon, some new malady. They couldn’t explain it. Of course they couldn’t. How could you when everyone afflicted couldn’t understand what was happening to them? They cordoned my world off, a ring of wooden ships and iron men. Nobody was allowed through. They were worried it might spread. A very reasonable, sensible fear when you’re dealing with the unknown. Perhaps even the right thing to do.
“That was what I came home to. A blockade of ships around my home. Alliance colours between me . . . between me and my family. I was often away from home, of course I was, it was the life I lived, the life I had chosen. But to come home to that . . . well, it was not an easy thing to accept. And many of us could not. As people returned home, the dissent grew. They wouldn’t allow us to land, wouldn’t allow us through. And no help was coming. Nothing was being done. So we decided we would do something.
“We ran the blockade, a handful of us. There were ships, mine and others, we would go in, find our families, and escape before the Alliance was any the wiser. Before they could stop us. And then we’d find a way to help them.”
“Captain,” Violet asked. “Where was the skipper, during all of this? Where was . . .”
“Nel? She was where she was meant to be, of course. A good soldier, holding the line, serving under her captain.”
“With you?”
“No, Violet, not with me.”
Violet nodded mutely. On the blockade then. She hadn’t wanted to think that, to think that of the skipper. But it was real, it had happened. Even without her thinking it.
“So her captain, her captain was . . .”
“Heathen, yes,” Horatio confirmed her suspicions. “The same one we met outside at Rim. At another blockade, come to think of it. That never occurred to me before. The black is a curious place, really, so vast yet rather small in a way. Or perhaps we are rather small, afraid to step outside of our routines.”
“What happened?” Violet asked. “Your family?”
“I never saw them again.” The captain clasped his hands together, resting his chin on them. “I returned home and they weren’t there. The house was empty. Others had more fortunate reunions. Only those with families on Vintage agreed to make the run, it was the only fair way. We couldn’t ask otherwise. We spent a day and a night searching. But we were pressed, for time and for hands. We had to leave. I remember the run back, looking back at Vintage. I remember seeing it happen.”
“Seeing what?”
“Seeing it die.”
The simplicity of the captain’s words was the most brutal part. Violet couldn’t even ask. Her mouth was open but no words came out.
“Dust, Violet, so much dust. It swallowed the whole planet, like a blanket being drawn across it. The planet turned into one giant cloud. Grey or muddy brown, never settling. And then it died. Heathen’s work, of course. Naturally, it was why she was there. An option of last resort. But it was because of us. It was our fault.”
Violet tried to shake her head. No. No.
No.
“They were terrified it would spread. Spread from Vintage, spreading misery across the Lanes. They still didn’t understand what it was, where it came from. And there was us, our little band of ships and captains, defying them at every turn. They did what they thought they had to.
“And they caught us, naturally. Threw us in irons, quarantined us aboard our own ships. Or so I’m told. We all started to exhibit the effects of the fog soon after. The time after, the days, the weeks, the months, all rather a blur. But I was told there was disquiet amongst the ranks, on the Alliance ships. The blockade. The death of a world does not sit well. And despite what some would have you believe, there are those with morals amongst the Alliance colours. Sadly.”
He sighed. “I say sadly, Violet, and I mean it. Many people were broken that day.”
“The skipper?”
The captain smiled. “I lost much that day, Violet. At the time all I had left to me was my ship, this ship. Would it surprise you to know how much I truly value the one thing I did gain that day? A dear friend, the oldest I can remember.
“I like to think,” the captain said, “that is I like to ask myself, if there is anything I wouldn’t do for the people I care about. Violet, would you like to know a secret?”
Biting down on her lower lip, she could only nod. There was nothing the captain could have asked her at that point, that she could have refused him.
He whispered it to her. “Mantids only sleep in high places. But never in hammocks. If the males aren’t careful about where they nap, the women folk might eat them.
“A secret,” the captain went on to say, “is only a secret if you choose to keep it that way. And people keep secrets for all manner of reasons, don’t you think?” He retrieved the globe from between Violet’s feet. Bandit watched intently as it was handed over. “Have you figured out this particular secret yet, my dear? I’m very pleased to see you still have it.”
Violet’s fingers closed around the water globe. Bandit’s low growl dropped away to a confused chirp, his head tilted to the side. The mist was calm inside the globe. The captain patted her on the shoulder.
“I don’t understand,” Violet said, facing the captain. Bandit climbed up her leg and made his way onto her shoulder, nuzzling against her, paws gripping her hair.
Moody little rat, make up your mind.
“And I hope that it stays that way, my dear,” Horatio smiled. “Best to leave some mystery in the black, yes? I must be going now, so many things to do. A few of them I may even remember to do. If I don’t write them down, they tend to slip away, very important to write things down. If not, well, I find if I can put something off until the morrow then Nel will usually have done it.”
“Captain?” Violet started to stand up. The captain shooed her back down.
“Take a moment to yourself, my dear girl. A moment
, just to be yourself. No one will know and such moments . . .” He smiled, a sad, wistful smile. “Well, they are to be treasured.”
He leaned down, speaking very gravely to Bandit, his face next to both of theirs. “And you take care of her, master Bandit. We all have our roles and that is yours.”
Again the loompa looked puzzled. Or perhaps that was his answer.
Violet shook her head as the captain left her. She loved the man, but by the black was he strange.
VIOLET MANAGED ALMOST an hour, a whole hour, to herself before Jack found her. And then it was back to duties, another supply run. Gabbi had been keeping their stocks sparse but frequent. Eking out the coins, she said, meant more trips but fresher foods. Violet didn’t mind though she kept quiet about the candied pear. Jack complained about her preference for weeds, as he put it, over real food, but he was a vocal minority, the other hands approving a shift in diet.
“You stay,” Violet told Bandit, when the loompa tried to climb up on her shoulder. He responded by jumping down and immediately trying to mount Jack’s shoulder. Jack batted him with the side of his head to get him off. Bandit grabbed Jack’s matted braids and hissed.
“Get down.” Violet pointed to the deck firmly. “Down, no arguing!”
The loompa eventually got down, turning and flicking his tail at them both.
“You two not getting along?” Jack asked, handing her the list. Jack could read, after a fashion. He just preferred not to.
“Don’t want him,” Violet said, feeling miserable about it. “Almost lost him last time. Can’t risk it.”
“Luck explaining that one,” Jack grunted. “What do you want, Kelpie?”
Quill, with a face uglier than Bandit’s behind. “Where are you two going?” he snapped. He snatched the list out of Violet’s hand. “Supplies? Again?”
“Take it up with the cook,” Jack told him. “If you’ve the nerve.”
Quill ignored Jack, handing the list back to Violet. One of his claws had caught, shredding a hole through one corner. “The skipper has gone ashore. She was of a mind that no one else go ashore until she returned.”
“You want to eat tonight?” Violet waved the list at him. “Don’t know if you do but the rest of the crew will. Gonna stand up and say it was cause you wouldn’t let us ashore?”
Folded arms and lashing tail, the Kelpie was right agitated. She could even hear his toes tapping, scraping against the woodwork.
“I will come with you,” he decided. “That should be acceptable.”
“Not to me it ain’t!” Jack objected. “If you’re going I ain’t.”
“We are both going,” Quill told him, to both Jack and Violet’s surprise. He pointed. “To make sure she returns. And for once,” he fixed Violet with a fierce look, “you may stay out of trouble. For once.”
Violet staunched up, folding her arms and lifting her chin. “Where’s the skipper gone? What’s she after?”
“Where that woman always goes, girl. In search of trouble.”
And that just explained it all.
Chapter 16
THE CAPTAIN HADN’T liked her idea. Neither had Quill. Gabbi would have disapproved had she been given the chance. Violet . . . well Violet hadn’t been told. She would have wanted to come along.
Would have told her no, girl would have snuck out and followed me.
The thought made Nel turn and peer back the way she had come suspiciously. Even linger by the corner to see if anyone familiar came down the street she’d just walked. But no, she was alone.
Alone in a crowd anyway.
It didn’t take much for Nel to concede this really wasn’t her best idea. Wandering around Vice alone looking for trouble. She had a wand hung low on her belt and a knife tucked into one boot but neither would help much if she ran into serious harm. Alliance marines for example.
Alliance marines. On Vice.
Tell it to the marines, the sailors won’t believe you.
Poor marines, if they were here they’d best leave soon before the locals finished swindling them out of all their coin. They didn’t train them to be smart in the High Lanes.
But they do train them mean.
Nor could she rely on them being all that stupid, despite the tale she’d spun for the captain.
Piper would have told it better, she thought with a sigh. A tale of wooden ships and iron men. Of sons and daughters of the black.
Just as well, captain wouldn’t have any of it. Hells, old man probably knew it all anyway. He’s either forgotten or he’s humouring me.
The thought occurred to her of where exactly she should look. The taverns possibly, but if they were here for Nel and her ship, as she feared, they’d be staying well away from liquor. Regretfully.
Naw, be rougher entertainment, if any. Won’t be shore leave, just something for the crew to let off some steam.
She’d found some of her own crew, sent them back to the ship with a boot to the backside. Safer there. No marines as yet.
Except I ain’t looking for no marines. Damnit, lad, where am I like to find you? Not carding nor drinking, unless there’s been even more years gone by than I can admit to. What does that leave?
Nel shook her head, chuckling to herself. Vice. Tattooed shellback sailors. You didn’t visit Vice, one of the most exotic ports in the black, and leave without something to show for it. And if you were a sailor who took pride in your ink, there was only one street. Old Ironsides.
A former hundred-gun ship turned market, the bazaar reminded Nel of the last she had been to, on Rim. The one no one would ever set foot on again, come to think of it, which made the thought all the more powerful. Built around the ribs of a famous ship of the line it now boasted a garish array of stalls and hawkers. Prominent among which were the tattooists.
There were no scratchers here, only artists. Vice’s reputation for extravagance and display meant that those who adorned themselves in skinwork wanted only the best. Brilliant colours, full body works, those were common here. Nel had heard of people spending long days totalling weeks in this street, having their bodies transformed to resemble animals; lizards or exotic birds, and mythical creatures. Often for those who were already inked those works would be expanded upon, worked into a larger tapestry that would spread out and cover the wearer’s skin.
It wasn’t Nel’s first visit to Vice. She rubbed at her right arm with her left hand. The skin itched as she passed stalls. She had to admit, some of the work she was seeing was breathtaking.
Tattoos were painful, that went without saying. But pain could be a good thing. It let you know you were still alive. It let you know you could still . . . feel.
But the bazaar didn’t limit itself to simple flesh etchings. Nel also passed stalls where customers were pierced and fitted with adornments. And then there was the cutting.
A woman leaned over the back of a chair, her back exposed, while an artist made what seemed like deep cuts into her skin. Nel could feel her gorge start to rise at the sight of the artist literally carving his art into the woman. The pattern involved flames but more than that she didn’t care to know.
“Curious customs,” a voice beside her said. “Pain for the sake of art, a search for a way to express something.”
“Some of us just like pretty pictures,” Nel shrugged. She turned after she spoke. The man beside her was Luscan. It was the skin that gave it away, the greyish, leathery skin, and the yellow eyes. This Luscan was of a height with Nel and smiled at her, though oddly without showing teeth. Which was fine with Nel─she didn’t need to see anyone’s mouthful of eellike teeth. The ritualised scars running the lengths of both cheeks were enough.
Luscans were naturally unsettling, whether they intended to be or not. The important thing, Nel reminded herself, was not to judge by appearance. She put more stock in actions. Such as how this one had his hands resting on the pair of wands in ornate, quick-draw holsters.
That made her cautious, but not enough to reach for her own weapon. N
ot yet.
“Very telling, how people choose to adorn themselves,” the Luscan continued, nodding his smooth head at Nel’s right arm, her sleeved one.
“If you say so.” Nel took a step back and away, not taking her eyes off him.
“Mors,” the woman whose back was being worked on called out. “Bring her here.”
“My friend would like a word with you,” the newly christened Mors conveyed, extending an arm to the tent.
Mors, Nel thought. Mors Coldstream. As in the duellist. Hells, as in the company of . . .
Aw, hells.
Wanted to look for trouble. Captain would laugh before he cried. Quill too. Maybe not Quill. Two choices then, make a scene now . . . or make a scene later.
Later, Nel decided, stepping inside the tent. She brushed past the artist who was doing his best to ignore her and went to stand in front of the woman.
Cold eyes this one, all flinty. Don’t like her at all.
“That stays open or we’re going to have a problem,” Nel warned as Mors stepped inside, reaching for the cord to drop the tent flap. Now she did let her hand fall.
Wasn’t no accident I stood so as I could see you both, Luscan.
“As you like.” Mors did show his teeth now. Rows of daggerlike, needle-sharp teeth. Like a mouthful of icicles.
“All right.” Nel squared her shoulders, pushing on the guard of her wand with her thumb, making sure it was loose. Doubtful it was going unnoticed but that wasn’t important no more. “You want to talk, let’s talk. You go first. What do you want?”
QUILL’S SKIN TINGLED. No, more of an itch, akin to the feeling of moulting when it was time to shed old scales. He raked ragged claws across his upper arms in agitation but it did no good. In fact the tingling sensation only spread to his hands. Quill stared at one hand in irritation, noting the rough, broken claws, blackened from tar, chipped from life aboard. The short webbing between his fingers was dry and cracking. The climate here did not agree with him anymore than the ice run had. Tell-tale bolts, threadbare and incandescent, played across his palm. The source of the itch in his scales. Nerves.
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